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One Hundred and 

One Famous 

Poems 



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With a 

Prose Supplement 

Strikingly Good 



Copyright 1916 
Rrj. Cook 



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PREFACE 

A SPIRIT of daring out of all proportion to any hope 
of gain must at times possess a publisher. 
You doubtless have heard the story of the "One 
Hundred and One Best Songs"; how its publishers 
printed several hundred thousand books in order that they 
might be sold at a price so low as to enable every child to have 
one. That, likewise, is the aim of this collection. 

To that eminent critic of English verse whose painstaking 
care in proof-reading has made this volume authoritative, the 
publisher acknowledges his gratitude and debt. 

The selections by Emerson, Burroughs, Holmes, Lowell, 
Sill, Whittier, Cary, Larcom and Longfellow, are used by 
permission of and special arrangement with Houghton-Mifflin 
Company, authorized publishers of their works. 

Grateful acknowledgment is also made to D. Appleton &c 
Company, F. W. Bourdillon, The Bobbs-Meriill Company, 
Charles Scribner's Sons, Double day-Page & Company, Little, 
Brown & Company, Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Company, 
A. P. Watt & Son, "The Academy," London, and the 
Librarian, University of Edinburgh, without whose kind co- 
operation this collection could not have been made. 

R. J. COOK, Publisher. 



THE CABLE COMPANY 

Distributors and Dealers'' u4gents 

Room 912, 57 East Jackson Boulevard 
Chicago, Illinois 



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PAGE 

Sir Patrick Spens 125 

Snowstorm, The — Ralph Waldo Emerson 21 

Soliloquy from Hamlet — William Shakespeare .' 143 

Solitude — Ella Wheeler Wilcox 72 

Song of the Chattahoochee — Sidiiey Lanier 57 

Song of the Shirt — Thomas Hood 51 

Sonnet on His Blindness — John Milton 91 

Spider and the Fly, The — Mary Howitt 145 

Thanatopsis — William Cullen Bryant 92 

That Time of Year — William Shakespeare 80 

Things that Are More Excellent, The — Willium Watson 132 

Time and Eternity (In Memoriam) — Alfred Tennyson 140 

To a Skylark — Percy Bysshe Shelley 22 

To a Waterfowl — William Cullen Bryant 158 

Waiting — John Burroughs 76 

When in Disgrace — William Shakespeare 119 

Wolsey's Farewell to His Greatness (Henry VHI) — John 

Fletcher 45 

World Is Too Much With Us, The — William Wordsworth. . . 55 
Your Mission — Ellen H. Gates . . . .- 29 

PROSE 

Declaration of Independence, The 171 

Gettysburg Address — Abraham Lincoln 167 

Letter to Mrs, Bixby — Abraham Lincoln' 166 

Magna Charta 169 

Ten Commandments, The 168 

War Inevitable, The — Patrick Henry 170 



Page One Hundred and Seventy-Nine 



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The Builders 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 
^Born February 27, 1807; Died March 24, 1882) 



All are architects of Fate, 

Working in these walls of Time; 

Some with massive deeds and great, 
Some with ornaments of rhyme. 

Nothing useless is, or low; 

Each thing in its place is best; 
And what seems but idle show 

Strengthens and supports the rest. 

For the structure that We raise, 
Time is with materials filled; 

Our todays and yesterdays 

Are the blocks with which we build. 

Truly shape and fashion these; 

Leave no yawning gaps between; 
Think not, because no man sees. 

Such things will remain unseen. 

In the elder days of Art, 

Builders wrought with greatest care 
Each minute and unseen part; 

For the gods see everywhere. 

Let us do our work as well, 
Both the unseen and the seen; 

Make the house where gods may dwell 
Beautiful, entire, and clean. 

Else our lives are incomplete. 
Standing in these walls of Time, 

Broken stairways, where the feet 
Stumble, as they seek to climb. 



Page One 



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Build today, then, strong and sure, 
With a firm and ample base; 

And ascending and secure 

Shall tomorrow find its place. 

Thus alone can we attain 

To those turrets, where the eye 

Sees the world as one vast plain. 
And one boundless reach of sky. 




Opportunity 

Edward R. Sill 
(Born April 29, 1841; Died February 27, 1887) 



This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream: — 
There spread a cloud of dust along a plain; 
And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged 
A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords 
Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince's banner 
Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes. 

A craven hung along the battle's edge, 
And thought, *'Had I a sword of keener steel — 
That blue blade that the king's son bears — but this 
Blunt thing!" — he snapped and flung it from his hand, 
And lowering crept away and left the field. 

Then came the king's son, wounded, sore bestead. 

And weaponless, and saw the broken sword. 

Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand. 

And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout 

Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down. 

And saved a great cause that heroic day. 



Page Two 



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Out to Old Aunt Mary's 

James Whitcomb Riley 

"On an early day in a memorable October, Reuben A. Riley 
and his wife, Elizabeth Marine Riley, rejoiced over the birth 

of their second son. They called him James Whitcomb ." 

From "The Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley" 

Bobbs-Merrill Company (in 6 volumes.) 

Mr. Riley always replies when asked the direct question as to his 

age. "I am this side of forty." Oct. 7, 1853, is the generally 

accepted date of his birth. 



Photograph by Mecca Studio 



Wasn't it pleasant, O brother mine, 
In those old days of the lost sunshine 
Of youth — when the Saturday's chores were through, 
And the ''Sunday's wood" in the kitchen, too, 
And we went visiting, "me and you," 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's.? 

It allcomes back so clear today! 
Though I am as bald as you are gray — 
Out by the barn-lot, and down the lane, 
We patter along in the dust again. 
As light as the tips of the drops of the rain, 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's! 

We cross the pasture, and through the wood 
Where the old gray snag of the poplar stood. 
Where the hammering red-heads hopped awry, 
And the buzzard "raised" in the clearing sky. 
And lolled and circled, as we went by. 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's. 

And then in the dust of the road again; 
And the teams we met, and the countrymen; 
And the long highway, with sunshine spread 
As thick as butter on country bread. 
Our cares behind, and our hearts ahead 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's. 

Why, I see her now in the open door, 
Where the little gourds grew up the sides, and o'er 
The clapboard roof! — And her face — ah, me! 
Wasn't it good for a boy to see — 
And wasn't it good for a boy to be 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's.? 



Page Three 



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The jelly — the jam and the marmalade, 
And the cherry and quince "preserves" she made! 
And the sweet-sour pickles of peach and pear, 
With cinnamon in 'em, and all things rare! — 
And the more we ate was the more to spare. 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's! 

And the old spring-house in the cool green gloom 
Of the willow-trees, and the cooler room 
Where the swinging-shelves and the crocks were kept- 
Where the cream in a golden languor slept 
While the waters gurgled and laughed and wept — 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's. 

And as many a time have you and I — 
Barefoot boys in the days gone by — 
Knelt, and in tremulous ecstasies 
Dipped our lips into sweets like these, — 
Memory now is on her knees 

Out to Old Aunt Mary's! 

And O, my brother, so far away, 
This is to tell you she waits today 
To welcome us: — Aunt Mary fell 
Asleep this morning, whispering, "Tell 
The boys to come!" And all is well 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's. 



From "Afterwhiles," by James Whitcomb Riley, 
Copyright 1898. Used by special permission 
of the Publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company. 



The complete edition of Riley's poems includes many stanzas 
which are familiar only to the student of Riley's poems. Most 
editors omit the next to the last stanza, as the poem stands 
complete, but it is the opinion of Professor R. M. Alden of 
Stanford University that with this omission the continuity of 
thought is broken. 



Page Four 



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Each and All 

Ralph Waldo Emerson 
(Born May 25, 1803 i Died April 27, 1882) 



Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown 

Of thee from the hill- top looking down; 

The heifer that lows In the upland farm, 

Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm; 

The sexton, tolling his bell at noon, 

Deems not that great Napoleon 

Stops his horse, and lists with delight, 

Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height; 

Nor knowest thou what argument 

Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent. 

All are needed by each one, — 

Nothing Is fair or good alone. 

I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, 

Singing at dawn on the alder bough; 

I brought him home. In his nest, at even; 

He sings the song, but It cheers not now; 

For I did not bring home the river and sky; 

He sang to my ear, — they sang to my eye. 

The delicate shells lay on the shore; 

The bubbles of the latest wave 

Fresh pearls to their enamel gave, 

And the bellowing of the savage sea 

Greeted their safe escape to me. 

I wiped away the weeds and foam — 

I fetched my sea-born treasures home; 

But the poor, unsightly, noisome things 

Had left their beauty on the shore 

With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar. 

The lover watched his graceful maid. 
As 'mid the virgin train she strayed. 
Nor knew her beauty's best attire 
Was woven still by the snow-white choir. 
At last she came to his hermitage, 



Page Five 



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Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage; 
The gay enchantment was undone — 
A gentle wife, but fairy none. 

Then I said, '*I covet truth; 

Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat; 

I leave it behind with the games of youth." 

As I spoke, beneath my feet 

The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath, 

Running over the club-moss burrs; 

I inhaled the violet's breath; 

Around me stood the oaks and firs; 

Pine cones and acorns lay on the ground; 

Over me soared the eternal sky. 

Full of light and of deity; 

Again I saw, again I heard, 

The rolling river, the morning bird; 

Beauty through my senses stole; 

I yielded myself to the perfect whole. 




The Rhodora 

On Being Asked Whence is the Flower 

Ralph Waldo Emerson 



In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, 

I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods. 

Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook. 

To please the desert and the sluggish brook. 

The purple petals, fallen in the pool. 

Made the black water with their beauty gay; 

Here might the redbird come his plumes to cool. 

And court the flower that cheapens his array. 

Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why 

This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, 

Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing. 

Then Beauty is its own excuse for being: 

Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose! 

I never thought to ask, I never knew: 

But, in my simple ignorance, suppose 

The self-same Power that brought me there brought you. 



P s- -^ 

P a g e S 1 X 



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Charge of the Light 
Brigade 

Alfred Tennyson 
rBorn August 6, 1809-, Died October 6, 1892) 



Half a league, half a league, 
Half a league onward, 

All in the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 

"Forward, the Light Brigade! 

Charge for the guns!" he said: 

Into the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 

"Forward, the Light Brigade!" 
Was there a man dismayed? 
Not tho' the soldier knew 

Some one had blunder'd: 
Theirs not to make reply. 
Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs but to do and die: 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them. 
Cannon in front of them 

Volleyed and thunder'd; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and well. 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of Hell, 

Rode the six hundred. 

Flashed all their sabres bare, 
Flashed as they turned in air, 
Sab'ring the gunners there, 
Charging an army, while 

All the world wondered: 
Plunged in the battery smoke, 



Page Seven 



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Right through the line they broke; 
Cossack and Russian 
Reeled from the sabre-stroke 

Shattered and sundered. 
Then they rode back, but not — 

Not the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them. 
Cannon behind them 

Volleyed and thundered; 
Stormed at with shot and shell, 
While horse and hero fell. 
They that had fought so well. 
Came thro' the jaws of Death, 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 
All that was left of them, 

Left of six hundred. 

When can their glory fade ? 
Oh, the wild charge they made! 

All the world wondered. 
Honor the charge they made! 
Honor the Light Brigade, 

Noble Six Hundred! 



The Night 
Has a Thousand Eyes 

Francis William Bourdillon 
(Born March 22, 1852; ) 

The night has a thousand eyes, 

And the day but one; 
Yet the light of the bright world dies 

With the dying sun. 

The mind has a thousand eyes, 

And the heart but one; 
Yet the light of a whole life dies 

When love is done. 

/,< 

PageEight 



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Plant a Tree 

Lucy Larcom 
("Born March 5, lS24(F)'y Died April 17, 1893) 



He who plants a tree 

Plants a hope. 

Rootlets up through fibres blindly grope; 
Leaves unfold into horizons free. 

So man's life must climb 

From the clods of time 

Unto heavens sublime. 
Canst thou prophesy, thou little tree, 
What the glory of thy boughs shall be? 

He who plants a tree 

Plants a joy; 

Plants a comfort that will never cloy; 
Every day a fresh reality, 

Beautiful and strong, 

To whose shelter throng 

Creatures blithe with song. 
If thou couldst but know, thou happy tree, 
Of the bliss that shall inhabit thee! 

He who plants a tree, — 

He plants peace. 

Under its green curtains jargons cease. 
Leaf and zephyr murmur soothingly; 

Shadows soft with sleep 

Down tired eyelids creep, 

Balm of slumber deep. 
Never hast thou dreamed, thou blessed tree, 
Of the benediction thou shalt be. 

He who plants a tree, — 

He plants youth; 

Vigor won for centuries in sooth; 
Life of time, that hints eternity! 



Page Nine 



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Boughs their strength uprear; 

New shoots, every year, 

On old growths appear; 
Thou shalt teach the ages, sturdy tree, 
Youth of soul is immortality. 

He who plants a tree, — 

He plants love. 

Tents of coolness spreading out above 
Wayfarers he may not live to see. 

Gifts that grow are best; 

Hands that bless are blest; 

Plant! life does the rest! 
Heaven and earth help him who plants a tree, 
And his work its own reward shall be. 





Conscience and Remorse 

Paul Lawrence Dunbar 
(Bom June 27, 1872; Died February 10 y 1906) 



"Good-bye," I said to my conscience — 

"Good-bye for aye and aye," 
And I put her hands off harshly. 

And turned my face away; 
And conscience smitten sorely 

Returned not from that day. 

But a time came when my spirit 

Grew weary of its pace; 
And I cried: "Come back, my conscience; 

I long to see thy face." 
But conscience cried: "I cannot; 

Remorse sits in my place." 

P a s: e Ten 



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Polonius' Advice 
to Laertes 

William Shakespeare 
/"Born April 23 (?), 1564; Died April 23, 1616 J 



There, — my blessing with you! 
And these few precepts in thy memory 
See thou character. — Give thy thoughts no tongue, 
Nor any unproportion'd thought his act. 
Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. 
The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, 
Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel; 
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment 
Of each new-hatched, unfledged comrade. Beware 
Of entrance to a quarrel; but being in, 
Bear't that the opposed may beware of thee. 
Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice: 
Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment. 
Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, 
But not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy: 
For the apparel oft proclaims the man. 
Neither a borrower nor a lender be. 
For loan oft loses both itself and friend, 
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. 
This above all: to thine own self be true. 
And it must follow, as the night the day. 
Thou canst not then be false to any man. 

From "Hamlet" 

Moonlight 

William Shakespeare 

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! 
Here will we sit, and let the sound of music 
Creep in our ears: soft stillness, and the night. 
Become the touches of sweet harmony. 

Sit, Jessica: look, how the floor of heaven 
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold: 
There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st, 
But in his motion like an angel sings. 
Still quiring to the young-ey'd cherubins. 

From "Merchant of Venice" 

Paare Eleven 



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Captain! My Captain! 

Walt Whitman 
(Born May SI, 187 9 i Died March 26, 1892) 



O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done; 

The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought 

is won; 
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, 
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and 

daring: 

But O heart! heart! heart! 

O the bleeding drops of red, 
Where on the deck my Captain lies. 

Fallen cold and dead. 

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; 
Rise up — for you the flag is flung — for you the bugle trills; 
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths — for you the 

shores a-crowding; 
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces 

turning; 

Here Captain! dear father! 

This arm beneath your head; 
It is some dream that on the deck 

You've fallen cold and dead. 



My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; 
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse or will; 
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and 

done; 
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object 

won: 

Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! 

But I, with mournful tread, 
Walk the deck my Captain lies. 

Fallen cold and dead. 



P a Q" e Twelve 



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The 
Chambered Nautilus 

Oliver Wendell Holmes 
(Born August 29, 1809; Died October 7, 1894) 



This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, 

Sails the unshadowed main, — 

The venturous bark that flings 
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings 
In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings. 

And coral reefs lie bare. 
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. 

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; 

Wrecked is the ship of pearl! 

And every chambered cell. 
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, 
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, 

Before thee lies revealed, — 
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed! 

Year after year beheld the silent toil 

That spread his lustrous coil; 

Still, as the spiral grew, 
He left the past year's dwelling for the new, 
Stole with soft step its shining archway through, 

Built up its idle door, 
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no 
more. 

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee. 

Child of the wandering sea. 

Cast from her lap, forlorn! 
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born 
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! 

While on mine ear it rings. 
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that 
sings: — 



Page Thirteen 

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Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, 

As the swift seasons roll! 

Leave thy low-vaulted past! 
Let each new temple, nobler than the last. 
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, 

Till thou at length art free. 
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea! 




Christmas Everywhere 

Phillips Brooks 
fBorn December 13^ 1835-^ Died January 23, 1893 J 



Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas tonight! 
Christmas in lands of the fir-tree and pine, 
Christmas in lands of the palm-tree and vine, 
Christmas where snow peaks stand solemn and white, 
Christmas where cornfields stand sunny and bright. 
Christmas where children are hopeful and gay, 
Christmas where old men are patient and gray, 
Christmas where peace, like a dove in his flight, 
Broods o'er brave men in the thick of the fight; 
Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas tonight! 

For the Christ-child who comes is the Master of all; 
No palace too great, no cottage too small. 



Taken from "Christmas Songs and 
Easter Carols," by Phillips Brooks. 
Copyright 190?, by E. P. DuttonA Co. 



Page Fourteen 



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Little Boy Blue 

Eugene Field 
(Born September i, 1850-^ Died Noijember 4^ 1895) 



The little toy dog is covered with dust, 

But sturdy and stanch he stands; 
And the little toy soldier is red with rust, 

And his musket moulds in his hands. 
Time was when the little toy dog was new, 

And the soldier was passing fair, 
And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue 

Kissed them and put them there. 

'*Now, don't you go till I come," he said, 

"And don't you make any noise!" 
So toddling off to his trundle-bed 

He dreamt of the pretty toys. 
And as he was dreaming, an angel song 

Awakened our Little Boy Blue, — 
Oh, the years are many, the years are long, 

But the little toy friends are true! 

Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand. 

Each in the same old place. 
Awaiting the touch of a little hand. 

The smile of a little face. 
And they wonder, as waiting these long years through, 

In the dust of that little chair. 
What has become of our Little Boy Blue 

Since he kissed them and put them there. 



From "The Poems of Eug:ene Field." 
Copyright 1911. Charles Scribner's Sons. 



Paare Fifteen 



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The Daffodils 

William Wordsworth 

(Born April?, 1770 i Died April 23, 1850) 



I wandered lonely as a cloud 

That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 
When all at once I saw a crowd, 

A host, of golden daffodils, 
Beside the lake, beneath the trees. 
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 
And twinkle on the Milky Way, 

They stretched in never-ending line 
Along the margin of a bay: 

Ten thousand saw I at a glance. 

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced, but they 
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee; 

A poet could not but be gay 
In such a jocund company. 

I gazed, and gazed, but little thought 

What wealth the show to me had brought: 

For oft, when on my couch I lie 
In vacant or in pensive mood, 

They flash upon that inward eye 
Which is the bliss of solitude; 

And then my heart with pleasure fills. 

And dances with the daffodils. 



Page Sixteen 



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June 

From "The Vision of Sir Launfal" 

James Russell Lowell 
f'Born February 22, J 819; Died August 12, 1891 J 



\ 



Over his keys the musing organist, 

Beginning doubtfully and far away, 
First lets his fingers wander as they list, 

And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay: 
Then, as the touch of his loved instrument 

Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme, 
First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent 

Along the wavering vista of his dream. 

Not only around our infancy 
Doth heaven with all its splendors lie; 
Daily, with souls that cringe and plot, 
We Sinais climb and know it not. 

Over our manhood bend the skies; 

Against our fallen and traitor lives 
The great winds utter prophecies; 

With our faint hearts the mountain strives; 
Its arms outstretched, the druid wood 

Waits with its benedicite; 
And to our age's drowsy blood 

Still shouts the inspiring sea. 

Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us; 

The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in. 
The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us, 

We bargain for the graves we lie in; 
At the devil's booth are all things sold, 
Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold; 
For a cap and bells our lives we pay, 

Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking: 
'Tis heaven alone that is given away, 

'Tis only God may be had for the asking; 
No price is set on the lavish summer; 
June may be had by the poorest comer. 



Page Seventeen 



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And what is so rare as a day in June? 

Then, if ever, come perfect days; 
Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune, 

And over it softly her warm ear lays; 
Whether we look, or whether we listen, 
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; 
Every clod feels a stir of might, 

An instinct within it that reaches and towers, 
And, groping blindly above it for light. 

Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; 
The flush of life may well be seen 

Thrilling back over hills and valleys; 
The cowslip startles in meadows green, 

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, 
And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean 

To be some happy creature's palace; 
The little bird sits at his door in the sun, 

Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, 
And lets his illumined being o'errun 

With the deluge of summer it receives; 
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, 
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; 
He sings to the wide world and she to her nest — 
In the nice ear of Nature, which song is the best? 

Now is the high-tide of the year, 

And whatever of life hath ebbed away 
Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer. 

Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; 
Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, 
We are happy now because God wills it; 
No matter how barren the past may have been, 
'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green; 
We sit in the warm shade and feel right well 
How the sap creeps up and t-he blossoms swell; 
We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help know^ing 
That skies are clear and grass is growing; 
The breeze comes whispering in our ear. 
That dandelions are blossoming near. 

That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, 
That the river is bluer than the sky. 
That the robin is plastering his house hard by; 
And if the breeze kept the good news back, 
For other couriers we should not lack; 

We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, — 
And hark! how clear bold chanticleer. 
Warmed with the new wine of the year, 

Tells all in his lusty crowing! 



Page Eighteen 



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Ode to the West Wind 

Percy Bysshe Shelley 
( Born August 4, 1792; Died July S, 1822) 



O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, 
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead 
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing. 
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, 
Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thou 
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed 
The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, 
Each like a corpse within its grave, until 
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow 
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill 
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) 
With living hues and odors plain and hill: 
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; 
Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh hear! 

Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion, 
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed. 
Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean, 
Angels of rain and lightning! there are spread 
On the blue surface of thine airy surge. 
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 
Of some fierce Maenad, ev'n from the dim verge 
Of the horizon to the zenith's height. 
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge 
Of the dying year, to which this closing night 
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, 
Vaulted with all thy congregated might 
Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere 
Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: oh hear! 

Thou who didst waken from his summer-dreams 
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, 
Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams. 
Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay. 
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers 



Paffe Nineteen 



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Quivering within the wave's intenser day, 

All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers 

So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou 

For whose path the Atlantic's level powers 

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below 

The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear 

The sapless foliage of the ocean, know 

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear 

And tremble and despoil themselves: oh hear! 

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; 
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; 
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share 
The impulse of thy strength, only less free 
Than Thou, O uncontrollable! If even 
I were as in my boyhood, and could be 
The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, 
As then, when to outstrip thy skyey speed 
Scarce seem'd a vision, — I would n'er have striven 
As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. 
Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! 
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! 
A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd 
One too like thee — tameless, and swift, and proud. 

Make me thy lyre, ev'n as the forest is: 
What if my leaves are falling like its own! 
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies 
Will take from both a deep autumnal tone. 
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou. Spirit fierce, 
My spirit! be thou me, impetuous one! 
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe, 
Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth; 
And, by the incantation of this verse, 
Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth 
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! 
Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth 
The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, 
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind.? 



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The Snowstorm 

Ralph Waldo Emerson 

/^Born May 2S, 1S03; Died April 27, 1882 J 



Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, 
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, 
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air 
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, 
And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end. 
The sled and traveler stopped, the courier's feet 
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit 
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed 
In a tumultuous privacy of storm. 

Come, see the north wind's masonry. 
Out of an unseen quarry evermore 
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer 
Curves his white bastions with projected roof 
Round every windward stake or tree or door. 
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work 
So fanciful, so savage, naught cares he 
For number or proportion. Mockingly 
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths; 
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn; 
Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, 
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate 
A tapering turret overtops the work. 
And when his hours are numbered, and the world 
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, 
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art 
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, 
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work. 
The frolic architecture of the snow. 



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To a Skylark 

Percy Bysshe Shelley 
fBorn August 4, 1792; Died July 8, 1S22J 



Hail to thee, blithe spirit! 

Bird thou never wert, 
That from heaven, or near it, 
Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 

Higher still and higher 

From the earth thou springest, 

Like a cloud of fire; 

The blue deep thou wingest, 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. 

In the golden lightning 

Of the sunken sun, 
O'er which clouds are brightening. 

Thou dost float and run. 
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. 

The pale purple even 

Melts around thy flight; 
Like a star of heaven, 

In the broad daylight 
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight, 

Keen as are the arrows 
Of that silver sphere. 
Whose intense lamp narrows 
In the white dawn clear. 
Until wx hardly see, we feel that it is there. 

All the earth and air 

With thy voice is loud. 
As, when night is bare, 
From one lonely cloud 
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. 



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What thou art we know not; 

What is most like thee? 
From rainbow clouds there flow not 
Drops so bright to see, 
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 

Like a poet hidden 

In the light of thought, 
Singing hymns unbidden, 
Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not; 

Like a high-born maiden 

In a palace tower, 
Soothing her love-laden 

Soul in secret hour 
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower; 

Like a glow-worm golden 

In a dell of dew, 
Scattering unbeholden 
Its aerial hue 
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the 
view; 

Like a rose embowered 

In its own green leaves. 
By warm winds deflowered. 
Till the scent it gives 
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged 
thieves. 

Sound of vernal showers, 

On the twinkling grass, 
Rain-awakened flowers. 

All that ever was 
Joyous and clear and fresh thy music doth surpass. 

Teach us, sprite or bird, 

What sweet thoughts are thine! 
I have never heard 
Praise of love or wine 
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 

Chorus hymeneal 

Or triumphal chant. 
Matched with thine, would be all 
But an empty vaunt, — 
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 



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What objects are the fountains 

Of thy happy strain? 
What fields or waves or mountains? 

What shapes of sky or plain? 
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? 

With thy clear keen joyance 

Languor cannot be; 
Shadow of annoyance 

Never came near thee; 
Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 

Waking or asleep, 

Thou of death must deem 
Things more true and deep 

Than. we mortals dream, 
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? 

We look before and after, 

And pine for what is not; 
Our sincerest laughter 

With some pain is fraught; 
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. 

Yet if we could scorn 

Hate and pride and fear; 
If we were things born 

Not to shed a tear, 
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 

Better than all measures 

Of delightful sound. 
Better than all treasures 

That in books are found, 
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! 

Teach me half the gladness 

That thy brain must know. 
Such harmonious madness 
From my lips would flow. 
The world should listen then, as I am listening now. 



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Hiawatha's Childhood 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

CBorn February 27, 1807; Died March 24, 1882) 



By the shores of Gitche Gumee, 
By the shining Big-Sea-Water, 
Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, 
Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis. 
Dark behind it rose the forest, 
Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees, 
Rose the firs with cones upon them; 
Bright before it beat the water, 
Beat the clear and sunny water, 
Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water. 

There the wrinkled old Nokomis 
Nursed the little Hiawatha, 
Rocked him in his linden cradle, 
Bedded soft in moss and rushes. 
Safely bound with reindeer sinews; 
Stilled his fretful wail by saying, 
"Hush! the Naked Bear will hear thee!" 
Lulled him into slumber, singing, 
"Ewa-yea! my little owlet! 
Who is this, that lights the wigwam? 
With his great eyes lights the wigwam ? 
Ewa-yea! my little owlet!" 

Many things Nokomis taught him 
Of the stars that shine in heaven; 
Showed him Ishkoodah, the comet, 
Ishkoodah, with fiery tresses; 
Showed the Death-Dance of the spirits. 
Warriors with their plumes and war-clubs, 
Flaring far away to northward 
In the frosty nights of winter; 
Showed the broad white road in heaven. 
Pathway of the ghosts, the shadows. 
Running straight across the heavens. 
Crowded with the ghosts, the shadows. 

At the door on summer evenings, 



:\ 



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Sat the little Hiawatha; 
Heard the whispering of the pine-trees, 
Heard the lapping of the waters, 
Sounds of music, words of wonder; 
"Minne-wawa!" said the pine-trees, 
"Mudway-aushka!" said the water. 

Saw the fire-fly Wah-wah-taysee, 
Flitting through the dusk of evening, 
With the twinkle of its candle 
Lighting up the brakes and bushes, 
And he sang the song of children, 
Sang the song Nokomis taught him: 
** Wah-wah-taysee, little firefly, 
Little, flitting, white-fire insect, 
Little, dancing, white-fire creature. 
Light me with your little candle. 
Ere upon my bed I lay me, 
Ere in sleep I close my eyelids!" 

Saw the moon rise from the water, 
Rippling, rounding from the water, 
Saw the flecks and shadows on it, 
Whispered, "What is that, Nokomis?" 
And the goo'd Nokomis answered: 
'*Once a warrior, very angry. 
Seized his grandmother, and threw her 
Up into the sky at midnight; 
Right against the moon he threw her; 
'Tis her body that you see there." 

Saw the rainbow in the heaven. 
In the eastern sky the rainbow. 
Whispered, ''What is that, Nokomis.?" 
And the good Nokomis answered: 
" 'Tis the heaven of flowers you see there; 
All the wild-flowers of the forest, 
All the lilies of the prairie. 
When on earth they fade and perish, 
Blossom in that heaven above us." 

When he heard the owls at midnight. 
Hooting, laughing in the forest, 
"What is that?" he cried in terror; 
"What is that," he said, "Nokomis?" 
And the good Nokomis answered : 
"That is but the owl and owlet. 
Talking in their native language, . 
Talking, scolding at each other." 

Then the little Hiawatha 
Learned of every bird its language. 
Learned their names and all their secrets. 
How they built their nests in summer, 

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Where they hid themselves in winter, 
Talked with them whene'er he met them, 
Called them ''Hiawatha's Chickens." 
Of all beasts he learned the language, 
Learned their names and all their secrets, 
How the beavers built their lodges, 
Where the squirrels hid their acorns. 
How the reindeer ran so swiftly. 
Why the rabbit was so timid. 
Talked with them whene'er he met them, 
Called them "Hiawatha's Brothers." 




The Happy Warrior 

William Wordsworth 
fBorn April 7, 1770; Died April 23, 1850) 



Who is the happy Warrior.? Who is he 
That every man in arms should wish to be? 

— It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought 
Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought 
Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought: 
Whose high endeavors are an inward light 
That makes the path before him always bright: 
Who, with a natural instinct to discern 
What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn; 
Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, 
But makes his moral being his prime care; 
Who, doomed to go in company with Pain, 
And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train! 
Turns his necessity to glorious gain; 
In face of these doth exercise a power 
Which is our human nature's highest dower; 
Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves 
Of their bad influence, and their good receives: 
By objects, which might force the soul to abate 
Her feeling, rendered more compassionate; 
Is placable — because occasions rise 
So often that demand such sacrifice; 



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More skillful in self-knowledge, even more pure, 
As tempted more; more able to endure, 
As more exposed to suffering and distress; 
Thence also, more alive to tenderness. 

— 'Tis he whose law is reason; who depends 
Upon that law as on the best of friends; 
Whence, in a state where men are tempted still 
To evil for a guard against worse ill, 
And what in quality or act is best 
Doth seldom on a right foundation rest, 
He labors good on good to fix, and owes 
To virtue every triumph that he knows: 

— Who, if he rise to station of command, 
Rises by open means; and there will stand 
On honorable terms, or else retire, 
And in himself possess his own desire; 
Who comprehends his trust, and to the same 
Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim; 
And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait 
For wealth, or honors, or for worldly state; 
Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall, 
Like showers of manna, if they come at all: 
Whose powers shed round him in the common strife, 
Of mild concerns of ordinary life, 
A constant influence, a peculiar grace; 
But who, if he be called upon to face 
Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined 
Great issues, good or bad for human kind, 
Is happy as a Lover; and attired 
With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired; 
And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law 
In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw; 
Or if an unexpected call succeed. 
Come when it will, is equal to the need: 

— He who, though thus endued as with a sense 
And faculty for storm and turbulence. 
Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans 
To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes; 
Sweet images! which, wheresoe'er he be, 
Are at his heart; and such fidelity 
It is his darling passion to approve; 
More brave for this, that he hath much to love: — 
'Tis, finally, the Man who lifted high. 
Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye, 
Or left unthought-of in obscurity, — 
Who, with a toward or untoward lot. 
Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not — 
Plays, in the many games of life, that one 
Where what he most doth value must be won: 



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Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, 
Nor thought of tender happiness betray; 
Who, not content that former worth stand fast. 
Looks forward, persevering to the last, 
From well to better, daily self-surpast: 
Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth 
Forever, and to noble deeds give birth. 
Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame. 
And leave a dead unprofitable name — 
Finds comfort in himself and in his cause; 
And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws 
His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause: 
This is the happy Warrior; this is He 
That every Man in arms should wish to be. 



Your Mission 

Ellen H. Gates 



If you cannot on the ocean 

Sail among the swiftest fleet. 
Rocking on the highest billows. 

Laughing at the storms you meet. 
You can stand among the sailors. 

Anchored yet within the bay. 
You can lend a hand to help them, 

As they launch their boats away. 

If you are too weak to journey 

Up the mountain, steep and high. 
You can stand within the valley. 

While the multitudes go by. 
You can chant in happy measure, 

As they slowly pass along; 
Though they may forget the singer 

They will not forget the song. 



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If you have not gold and silver 

Ever ready to command, 
If you cannot toward the needy 

Reach an ever open hand, 
You can visit the afflicted, 

O'er the erring you can weep, 
You can be a true disciple, 

Sitting at the Saviour's feet. 

If you cannot in the conflict 

Prove yourself a soldier true, 
If where the fire and smoke are thickest 

There's no work for you to do. 
When the battle-field is silent. 

You can go with careful tread, 
You can bear away the wounded. 

You can cover up the dead. 

Do not then stand idly waiting 

For some greater work to do; 
Fortune is a lazy goddess. 

She will never come to you. 
Go and toil in any vineyard. 

Do not fear to do or dare, 
If you want a field of labor. 

You can find it anywhere. 




Not In Vain 

Emily Dickinson 

(Portrait taken in childhood) 



Kepioduced by permission of 
Little, Brown & Company 



If I can stop one heart from breaking, 

I shall not live in vain: 

If I can ease one life the aching. 

Or cool one pain, 

Or help one fainting robin 

Unto his nest again, 

I shall not live in vain. 



Page Thirty 



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Sheridan's Ride 

Thomas Buchanan Read 
(Born March 12, 1822; Died May 11, 1872) 



Up from the South at break of day, 

Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, 

The affrighted air with a shudder bore, 

Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door, 

The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, 

Telling the battle was on once more, 

And Sheridan twenty miles away. 

And wider still those billows of war 

Thundered along the horizon's bar; 

And louder yet into Winchester rolled 

The roar of that red sea uncontrolled. 

Making the blood of the listener cold, 

As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray. 

With Sheridan twenty miles away. 

But there is a road from Winchester town, 

A good, broad highway leading down; 

And there, through the flush of the morning light, 

A steed as black as the steeds of night, 

Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight; 

As if he knew the terrible need. 

He stretched away with his utmost speed; 

Hills rose and fell; but his heart was gay, 

With Sheridan fifteen miles away. 

Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South, 

The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth; 

Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, 

Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. 

The heart of the steed and the heart of the master 

Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, 

Impatient to be where the battlefield calls; 

Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, 

With Sheridan only ten miles away. 



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Under his spurning feet the road 

Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, 

And the landscape sped away behind 

Like an ocean flying before the wind, 

And the steed, like a barque fed with furnace ire, 

Swept on, with his wild eye full of fire. 

But lo! he is nearing his heart's desire; 

He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray. 

With Sheridan only five miles away. 

The first that the general saw were the groups 

Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops; 

What was done.? What to do.? A glance told him both, 

Then, striking his spurs, with a terrible oath, 

He dashed down the line 'mid a storm of huzzas, 

And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because 

The sight of the master compelled it to pause. 

With foam and with dust the black charger was gray; 

By the flash of his eye, and the red nostril's play, 

He seemed to the whole great army to say, 

"I have brought you Sheridan all the way 

From Winchester down to save the day!" 

Hurrah! Hurrah for Sheridan! 
Hurrah! Hurrah for horse and man! 
And when their statues are placed on high, 
Under the dome of the Union sky. 
The American soldier's Temple of Fame; 
There with the glorious general's name. 
Be it said, in letters both bold and bright, 

"Here is the steed that saved the day. 
By carrying Sheridan into the fight. 

From Winchester, twenty miles away!" 

Courtesy, J. B. Lippincott Company 



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The Present Crisis 

James Russell Lowell 
('Born February 22, 1819 ^ Died August 12, 1891 J 



When a deed is done for Freedom, through the broad 

earth's aching breast 
Runs a thrill of joy prophetic, trembling on from east to 

west, 
And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels the soul within 

him climb 
To the awful verge of manhood, as the energy sublime 
Of a century bursts full-blossomed on the thorny stem of 

Time. 



Through the walls of hut and palace shoots the instan- 
taneous throe, 

When the travail of the Ages wrings earth's systems to 
and fro; 

At the birth of each new Era, with a recognizing start. 

Nation wildly looks at nation, standing with mute lips 
apart. 

And glad Truth's yet mightier man-child leaps beneath 
the Future's heart. 



So the Evil's triumph sendeth, with a terror and a chill. 
Under continent to continent, the sense of coming ill, 
And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels his sympathies 

with God 
In hot tear-drops ebbing earthward, to be drunk up by 

the sod. 
Till a corpse crawls round unburied, delving in the nobler 

clod. 



For mankind are one in spirit, and an instinct bears 

along, 
Round the earth's electric circle, the swift flash of right 

or wrong; 

Page Thirty-Three 



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Whether conscious or unconscious, yet Humanity's vast 

frame 
Through its ocean-sundered fibres feels the gush of joy or 

shame; — 
In the gain or loss of one race all the rest have equal 

claim. 



Once to every man and nation comes the moment to 

decide, 
In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or 

evil side; 
Some great cause, God's new Messiah, offering each the 

bloom or blight. 
Parts the goats upon the left hand and the sheep upon 

the right. 
And the choice goes by forever 'twixt that darkness and 

that light. 



Hast thou chosen, O my people, on whose party thou 

shalt stand, 
Ere the Doom from its worn sandals shakes the dust 

against our land? 
Though the cause of Evil prosper, yet 'tis Truth alone is 

strong, 
And, albeit she wander outcast now, I see around her 

throng 
Troops of beautiful, tall angels, to enshield her from all 

wrong. 



Backward look across the ages and the beacon-moments 

see. 
That, like peaks of some sunk continent, jut through 

Oblivion's sea; 
Not an ear in court or market for the low foreboding cry 
Of those Crises, God's stern winnowers, from whose feet 

earth's chaff must fly; 
Never shows the choice momentous till the judgment hath 

passed by. 



Careless seems the great Avenger; history's pages but 

record 
One death-grapple in the darkness 'twixt old systems and 

the Word; 
Truth forever on the scaffold. Wrong forever on the 

throne, — 



Page Thirty-four 



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Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the dim 

unknown, 
Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above 

his own. 



We see dimly in the Present what is small and what is 
great. 

Slow of faith how weak an arm may turn the iron helm 
of fate. 

But the soul is still oracular; amid the market's din. 

List the ominous stern whisper from the Delphic cave 
within, — 

"They enslave their children's children who make com- 
promise with sin." 



Slavery, the earth-born Cyclops, fellest of the giant brood. 
Sons of brutish Force and Darkness, who have drenched 

the earth with blood. 
Famished in his self-made desert, blinded by our purer 

day. 
Gropes in yet unblasted regions for his miserable prey; — 
Shall we guide his gory fingers where our helpless chil- 
dren play.? 



Then to side with Truth is noble when we share her 

wretched crust, 
Ere her cause bring fame and profit, and 'tis prosperous 

to be just; 
Then it is the brave man chooses, while the coward 

stands aside, 
Doubting in his abject spirit, till his Lord is crucified. 
And the multitude make virtue of the faith they had 

denied. 



Count me o'er earth's chosen heroes, — they were souls 

that stood alone. 
While the men they agonized for'hurled the contumelious 

stone. 
Stood serene, and down the future saw the golden beam 

incline 
To the side of perfect justice, mastered by their faith 

divine. 
By one man's plain truth to manhood and to God's 

supreme design. 

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By the light of burning heretics Christ's bleeding feet I 
track, 

Toiling up new Calvaries ever with the cross that turns 
not back, 

And these mounts of anguish number how each genera- 
tion learned 

One new word of that grand Credo which in prophet- 
hearts hath burned 

Since the first man stood God-conquered with his face to 
heaven upturned. 

For humanity sweeps onward: where today the martyr 

stands. 
On the morrow crouches Judas with the silver in his 

hands; 
Far in front the cross stands ready and the crackling 

fagots burn. 
While the hooting mob of yesterday in silent awe return 
To glean up the scattered ashes into History's golden 

urn. 



'Tis as easy to be heroes as to sit the idle slaves 

Of a legendary virtue carved upon our father's graves. 

Worshippers of light ancestral make the present light a 

crime; — 
Was the Mayflower launched by cowards, steered by men 

behind their time.? 
Turn those tracks toward Past or Future, that make 

Plymouth Rock sublime.? 

They were men of present valor, stalwart old iconoclasts. 
Unconvinced by axe or gibbet that all virtue was the 

Past's; 
But we make their truth our falsehood thinking that hath 

made us free. 
Hoarding it in mouldy parchments, while our tender 

spirits flee 
The rude grasp of that great Impulse which drove them 

across the sea. 



They have rights who dare maintain them; we are traitors 
to our sires. 

Smothering in their holy ashes Freedom's new-lit altar- 
fires; 

Shall we make their creed our jailer.? Shall we, in our 
haste to slay. 

Page Thirty-six 



^nt ^uttixTtit nnit ®n^ ^umtttts ^it^ms 



From the tombs of the old prophets steal the funeral 

lamps away 
To light up the martyr-fagots round the prophets of 

today? 

New occasions teach new duties; Time makes ancient 
good uncouth; 

They must upward still, and onward, who would keep 
abreast of Truth; 

Lo, before us gleam her camp-fires! we ourselves must 
Pilgrims be, 

Launch our Mayflower, and steer boldly through the 
desperate winter sea, 

Nor attempt the Future's portal with the Past's blood- 
rusted key. 




Be Strong 



Maltbie Davenport Babcock 

f^Born August 3, 1858 ; Died May 18, 1901) 



Photographed from portrait hanging: in th« 
lecture room of the Brick Presbyterian 
Church, New York, of which Dr. Babcock 
was formerly pastor. 



Be strong! 
We are not here to play, to dream, to drift; 
We have hard work to do, and loads to lift; 
Shun not the struggle — face it; 'tis God's gift. 

Be strong! 
Say not, "The days are evil. Who's to blame.?" 
And fold the hands and acquiesce — oh shame! 
Stand up, speak out, and bravely, in God's name. 

Be strong! 
It matters not how deep intrenched the wrong. 
How hard the battle goes, the day how long; 
Faint not — fight on! To-morrow comes the song. 



Page Thirty-seven 



®nt: ^nnitvtit unit ^n^ ^vimitns l^xttms 




Columbus 

CiNCINNATUS HiNER MiLLER 

Known as Joaquin Miller 



(Born November 10, 1841; Died February 17, 1913) 



Copyright 1908, J. E. Purdy, Boston 



Behind him lay the gray Azores, 

Behind the Gates of Hercules; 
Before him not the ghost of shores, 

Before him only shoreless seas. 
The good mate said: ''Now must we pray, 

For lo! the very stars are gone. 
Brave Adm'r'l, speak; what shall I say.?" 

"Why, say: 'Sail on! sail on! and on!' " 

"My men grow mutinous day by" day; 

My men grow ghastly wan and weak." 
The stout mate thought of home; a spray 

Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek. 
"What shall I say, brave Adm'r'l, say. 

If we sight naught but seas at dawn.?" 
"Why, you shall say, at break of day: 

'Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!' " 

They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow. 

Until at last the blanched mate said: 
"Why, now not even God would know 

Should I and all my men fall dead. 
These very winds forget their way. 

For God from these dread seas is gone. 
Now speak, brave Adm'r'l; speak and say" — 

He said: "Sail on! sail on! and on!" 

They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate: 

"This mad sea shows his teeth to-night; 
He curls his lips, he lies in wait. 

With lifted teeth, as if to bite: 
Brave Adm'r'l, say but one good word; 

What shall we do when hope is gone.?" 
The words leapt like a leaping sword: 

"Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!" 



Page Thirty-eight 



®it^ ^nnitvt^h unit ®ji^ ^nmixn^ l^xxiem^ 



Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck. 

And peered through darkness. Ah, that night 
Of all dark nights! And then a speck — 

A light! a light! a light! a light! 
It grew, a starlit flag unfurled! 

It grew to be Time's burst of dawn. 
He gained a world; he gave that world 

Its grandest lesson: "On! sail on!" 

Copyrighted by 
Whitaker A Ray-Wie?in Co. 




The Blue and The Gray 

Francis Miles Finch 
(Born June 9, 1827-, Died July 31, 1907) 



By the flow of the inland river, 

Where the fleets of iron have fled. 
Where the blades of grave grass quiver, 

Asleep are the ranks of the dead; 
Under the sod and the dew. 

Waiting the judgment day — 
Under the one, the blue; 

Under the other, the gray. 

These in the robings of glory. 

Those in the gloom of defeat, 
AH, with the battle blood gory, 

In the dusk of eternity meet; 
Under the sod and the dew. 

Waiting the judgment day — 
Under the laurel, the blue; 

Under the willow, the gray. 

From the silence of sorrowful hours 

The desolate mourners go, 
Lovingly laden with flowers 

Alike for the friend and the foe; 
Under the sod and the dew. 

Waiting the judgment day — 
Under the roses, the blue; 

Under the lilies, the gray. 



Page Thirty-nine 



®«^ ^nn^x^h Kttit ^n^ ^ztmtius ^xt^ms 



So with an equal splendor 

The morning sun-rays fall, 
With a touch impartially tender, 

On the blossoms blooming for all; 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment day — 
'Broidered with gold, the blue; 

Mellowed with gold, the gray. 

So, when the summer calleth 

On forest and field of grain, 
With an equal murmur falleth 

The cooling drip of the rain; 
Under the sod and the dew, ,>5 

Waiting the judgment day- 
Wet with the rain, the blue; 

Wet with the rain, the gray. 

Sadly, but not with upbraiding. 

The generous deed was done; 
In the storm of the years that are fading, 

No braver battle was won; 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment day — 
Under the blossoms, the blue; 

Under the garlands, the gray. 

No more shall the war-cry sever. 

Or the winding rivers be red; 
They banish our anger forever 

When they laurel the graves of our dead! 
Under the sod and the dew. 

Waiting the judgment day — 
Love and tears for the blue; 

Tears and love for the gray. 



Reprinted by permission from "The 
Blue and the Gray and Other 
Verses," by Francis M. Finch. Copy- 
right 1909, by Henry Holt &. Co. 



Page Forty 



®n^ ^xtnitx^it etitit i^n^ ^nmxtns ^u^ms 




Recessional 

RuDYARD Kipling 
{Born December 30^ 1865^ — 



God of our fathers, known of old — 
Lord of our far-flung battle line — 

Beneath whose awful hand we hold 
Dominion over palm and pine — 

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 

Lest we forget — lest we forget! 

The tumult and the shouting dies — 
The Captains and the Kings depart — 

Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice. 
An humble and a contrite heart. 

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 

Lest we forget — lest we forget! 

Far-called, our navies melt away — 
On dune and headland sinks the fire — 

Lo, all our pomp of yesterday 
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! 

Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, 

Lest we forget — lest we forget! 

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose 

Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe- 
Such boasting as the Gentiles use, . 

Or lesser breeds without the Law — 
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet. 
Lest we forget — lest we forget! 

For heathen heart that puts her trust 
In reeking tube and iron shard — 

All valiant dust that builds on dust. 
And guarding, calls not Thee to guard, 

For frantic boast and foolish word, 

Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord! Amen! 



Page Forty-one 



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The Cloud 

Percy Bysshe Shelley 
("Born August 4, 1792; Died July 8, 1822) 



I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, 

From the seas and the streams; 
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid 

In their noonday dreams. 
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 

The sweet buds every one, 
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast. 

As she dances about the sun. 
I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 

And whiten the green plains under; 
And then again I dissolve it in rain, 

And laugh as I pass in thunder. 

I sift the snow on the mountains below, 

And their great pines groan aghast; 
And all the night 'tis my pillow white. 

While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers, 

Lightning, my pilot, sits; 
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder. 

It struggles and howls at fits; 
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion. 

This pilot is guiding me, 
Lured by the love of the genii that move 

In the depths of the purple sea; 
Over the rills and the crags and the hills. 

Over the lakes and the plains. 
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream. 

The Spirit he loves remains; 
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile. 

Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes. 
And his burning plumes outspread, 

Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, 
When the morning star shines dead: 

As on the jag of a mountain crag 

Which an earthquake rocks and swings. 

Page F o r t y - t w o 



#jt^ ^tcnitt^it nnit ®tt^ ^nmttn^ '^xt^msi 



An eagle alit one moment may sit 

In the light of its golden wings. 
And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, 

Its ardors of rest and of love, 
And the crimson pall of eve may fall 

From the depth of heaven above, 
With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest, 

As still as a brooding dove. 

That orbed maiden with white fire laden. 

Whom mortals call the moon. 
Glides glimmering o'er my fleecelike floor. 

By the midnight breezes strewn; 
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet. 

Which only the angels hear. 
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof. 

The stars peep behind her and peer. 
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee 

Like a swarm of golden bees, 
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, — 

Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, 
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high. 

Are each paved with the moon and these. 

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, 

And the moon's with a girdle of pearl; 
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim. 

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, 

Over a torrent sea, 
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, — 

The mountains its columns be. 
The triumphal arch through which I march 

With hurricane, fire, and snow,. 
When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, 

Is the million-colored bow; 
The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, 

While the moist earth was laughing below. 

I am the daughter of earth and water. 

And the nursling of the sky; 
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; 

I change, but I cannot die. 
For after the rain, when, with never a stain, 

The pavilion of heaven is bare, 
And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams. 

Build up the blue dome of air, 
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph. 

And out of the caverns of rain, 
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, 

I arise and unbuild it again. 

Page Forty-three 



^nz ^nnitxtb^ nnit ®tt^ ^Kmxtn^ ^u^ms 




How Did You Die? 



Edward Vance Cooke 



Did you tackle that trouble that came your way 

With a resolute heart and cheerful? 
Or hide your face from the light of day 

With a craven soul and fearful? 

Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce, 

Or a trouble is what you make it. 
And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts. 

But only how did you take it? 

You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that? 

Come up with a smiling face. 
It's nothing against you to fall down flat, 

But to lie there— that's disgrace. 

The harder you're thrown, why the higher you bounce; 

Be proud of your blackened eye! 
It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts; 

It's how did you° fight and why? 

And though you be done to death, what then? 

If you battled the best you could; 
If you played your part in the world of men. 

Why, the Critic will call it good. 

Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce. 

And whether he's slow or spry. 
It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts, 

But only, how did you die ? 



From "impertinent Poems" (by permission) 

Copyright 190? by E. V. Cooke 

1907 by Dodge Publishing Company 



/ 



Page Forty-Four 



®tt^ ^nnht^it nnh ©tt^ ^rcmttn^ ^xttms 




Wolsey's Farewell to 
his Greatness 

John Fletcher 
("Born December 20, 1759; Died August 28{?),1625J 



From a portrait in possession of the 

Earl of Clarendon 

(Courtesy, The Outlook) 



Farewell! a long farewell to all my greatness! 
This is the state of man: today he puts forth 
The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms, 
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him; 
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost; 
And — ^when he thinks, good easy man, full surely 
His greatness is a-ripening — nips his root, 
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd. 
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, 
This many summers in a sea of glory. 
But far beyond my depth; my high blown pride 
At length broke under me, and now has left me, 
Weary and old with service, to the mercy 
Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me. 
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye! 
I feel my heart new-opened. Oh! how wretched 
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors! 
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to. 
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin. 
More pangs and fears than w-ars or women have; 
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, 
Never to hope again. 



From ' Henry VIII' 



Page Forty-Five 



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The Blessed Damozel 

Dante Gabriel Rossetti 
("Bom May 12, 1828; Died April P, 1882) 



The blessed damozel leaned out 
From the gold bar of heaven; 

Her eyes were deeper than the depth 
Of waters stilled at even; 

She had three lilies in her hand, 

And the stars in her hair were seven. 

Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, 
No wrought flowers did adorn. 

But a white rose of Mary's gift. 
For service meetly worn; 

Her hair that lay along her back 
Was yellow like ripe corn. 

Her seemed she scarce had been a day 

One of God's choristers; 
The wonder was not yet quite gone 

From that still look of hers; 
Albeit, to them she left, her day 

Had counted as ten years. 

(To one, it is ten years of years, 

• Yet now, and in this place, 
Surely she lean'd o'er me — her hair 

Fell all about my face. * 
Nothing: the autumn fall of leaves. 

The whole year sets apace.) 

It was the rampart of God's house 

That she was standing on; 
By God built over the sheer depth 

The which is Space begun; 
So high, that looking downward thence 

She scarce could see the sun. 



Page Forty-Six 



®tte ^ttttittr^it ztnit ®tt^ ^nmtttc^ l^xt^ms 



It lies in heaven, across the flood 

Of ether, as a bridge. 
Beneath, the tides of day and night 

With flame and darkness ridge 
The void, as low as where this earth 

Spins like a fretful midge. 

Around her, lovers, newly met 

'Mid deathless love's acclaims 
Spake evermore among themselves 

Their heart-remember'd names; 
And the souls mounting up to God 

Went by her like thin flames. 

And still she bowed herself and stooped 

Out of the circling charm; 
Until her bosom must have made 

The bar she leaned on warm, 
And the lilies lay as if asleep 

Along her bended arm. 

From the fixed place of heaven she saw 

Time like a pulse shake fierce 
Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove 

Within the gulf to pierce 
The path; and now she spoke as when 

The stars sang in their spheres. 

The sun was gone now; the curled moon 

Was like a little feather 
Fluttering far down the gulf; and now 

She spoke through the still weather. 
Her voice was like the voice the stars 

Had when they sang together. 

(Ah, sweet! even now, in that bird's song, 

Strove not her accents there, 
Fain to be hearkened.? When those bells 

Possessed the mid-day air. 
Strove not her steps to reach my side 

Down all the echoing stair .f*) 

"I wish that he were come to me. 

For he will come," she said. 
'*Have I not prayed in heaven.? — on earth, 

Lord, Lord, has he not prayed.? 
Are not two prayers a perfect strength.? 

And shall I feel afraid.? 



Page Forty-Seven 



©jte ^nnitxtb^ ztnit ®ne ^nmtxn^ l^xt^ms 



"When round his head the aureole clings, 

And he is clothed in white, 
I'll take his hand and go with him 

To the deep wells of light; 
As unto a stream we will step down. 

And bathe there in God's sight. 

"We two will stand beside that shrine. 

Occult, withheld, untrod, 
Whose lamps are stirred continually 

With prayer sent up to God; 
And see our old prayers, granted, melt 

Each like a little cloud. 

"We two will lie i' the shadow of 

That living mystic tree. 
Within whose secret growth the Dove 

Is sometimes felt to be, 
While every leaf that His plumes touch 

Saith His Name audibly. 

"And I myself will teach to him, 

I myself, lying so. 
The songs I sing here; which his voice 

Shall pause in, hushed and slow. 
And find some knowledge at each pause. 

Or some new thing to know." 

(Alas! We two, we two, thou say'st! 

Yea, one wast thou with me 
That once of old. But shall God lift 

To endless unity 
The soul whose likeness with thy soul 

Was but its love for thee.?) 

"We two," she said, "will seek the groves 

Where the Lady Mary is. 
With her five handmaidens, whose names 

Are five sweet symphonies, 
Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen, 

Margaret, and Rosalys. 

"Circlewise sit they, with bound locks 

And foreheads garlanded; 
Into the fine cloth, white like flame, 

Weaving the golden thread, 
To fashion the birth-robes for them 

Who are just born, being dead. 



Page Forty-Eight 



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'*He shall fear, haply, and be dumb; 

Then will I lay my cheek 
To his, and tell about our love, 

Not once abashed or weak: 
And the dear Mother will approve 

My pride, and let me speak. 

"Herself shall bring us, hand in hand. 
To Him round whom all souls 

Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads 
Bowed with their aureoles: 

And angels meeting us shall sing 
To their citherns and citoles. 

"There will I ask of Christ the Lord 
Thus much for him and me: — 

Only to live as once on earth 
With Love — only to be. 

As then awhile, for ever now 
Together, I and he." 

She gazed and listened, and then said. 
Less sad of speech than mild — 

"All this is when he comes." She ceased. 
The light thrilled towards her, filled 

With angels in strong level flight. 
Her eyes prayed, and she smiled. 



(I saw her smile.) But soon their path 
Was vague in distant spheres: 

And then she cast her arms along 
The golden barriers, 

And laid her face between her hands 
And wept. (I heard her tears.) 



Page Forty-Nine 



®n^ ^nnbip:eh zcnit ®n^ ^tcman^ ^xt^nts 




America for Me 

Henry Van Dyke 
f'Born November 10^ 1852-^ ) 



Copyright, J. E. Purdy, Boston 

'Tis fine to see the Old World, and travel up and down 

Among the famous palaces and cities of renown, 

To admire the crumbly castles and the statues of the 

kings, — ^ 
But now I think I've had enough of antiquated things. 

So it' s home again, and home again, America for me! 
My heart is turning home again, and there I long to be. 
In the land of youth and freedom beyond the ocean bars, 
Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars. 

Oh, London is a man's town, there's power in the air; 
And Paris is a woman's town, with flowers in her hair; 
And it's sweet to dream in Venice, and it's great to study 

Rome; 
But when it comes to living there is no place like home. 

I like the German fir-woods, in green battalions drilled; 
I like the gardens of Versailles with flashing fountains 

filled; 
But, oh, to take your hand, my dear, and ramble for a day 
In the friendly western woodland where Nature has her 

way! 

I know that Europe's wonderful, yet something seems to 

lack: 
The Past is too much with her, and the people looking 

back. 
But the glory of the Present is to make the Future free,- — 
We love our land for what she is and what she is to be. 

Oh, it's home again, and home again, America for me! 
I want a ship that's westward bound to plough the rolling sea, 
To the blessed Land of Room Enough beyond the ocean bars. 
Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars. 



Page Fifty 



©tt^ ^nnhx:eit nnit ®tt^ ^Kmttns^ l^xttmsi 




Song of the Shirt 

Thomas Hood 
("Born May 23, 1799; Died May 3, 1845) 



Courtesy, Tlie Academy 



With fingers weary and worn, 

With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat in unwomanly rags. 

Plying her needle and thread — 
Stitch! stitch! stitch! 

In poverty, hunger and dirt. 
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch 

She sang the "Song of the Shirt!" 

"Work! work! work! 

While the cock is crowing aloof! 
And work — work — work. 

Till the stars shine through the roof! 
It's oh! to be a slave 

Along with the barbarous Turk, 
Where a woman has never a soul to save, 

If this is Christian work! 

' 'Work — work — work 

Till the brain begins to swim; 
Wo r k — wo rk — wo rk 

Till the eyes are heavy and dim! 
Seam, and gusset, and band, 

Band, and gusset, and seam, 
Till over the buttons I fall asleep, 

And sew them on in a dream! 

''O men, with sisters dear! 

O men, with mothers and wives! 
It is not linen you're wearing out. 

But human creatures' lives! 
Stitch — stitch — stitch ! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt, — 
Sewing at once, with a double thread, 

A shroud as well as a shirt! 



Page Fifty-one 



®«^ ^nnitT:eit nnit ^nt ^nmxttts l^xtzms 



"But why do I talk of Death, — 

That phantom of grisly bone? 
I hardly fear his terrible shape, 

It seems so like my own, — 

It seems so like my own, 
Because of the fasts I keep; 

O God! that bread should be so dear, 
And flesh and blood so cheap! 

"Work! work! work! 

My labor never flags; 
And what are its wages? A bed of straw, 

A crust of bread — and rags. 
That shattered roof — and this naked floor — 

A table — a broken chair — 
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank 

For sometimes falling there! 

"Work — work — work ! 

From weary chime to chime! 
Work — work — work ! 

As prisoners work for crime! 
Band, and gusset, and seam, 

Seam, and gusset, and band, — 
Till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed. 

As well as the weary hand. 

' ' Work — work — work ! 

In the dull December light! 
And work — work — work! 

When the weather is warm and bright! 
While underneath the eaves 

The brooding swallows cling. 
As if to show me their sunny backs, 

And twit me with the spring. 

"Oh, but to breathe the breath 

Of the cowslip and primrose sweet, — 
With the sky above my head. 

And the grass beneath my feet! 
For only one short hour 

To feel as I used to feel, 
Before I knew the woes of want 

And the walk that costs a meal! 

"Oh, but for one short hour, — 

A respite, however brief! 
No blessed leisure for love or hope, 

But only time for grief! 



Page Fifty-two 



®jt^ ^nnitx:eit nn^ ^n^ ^Kmttns ^jj^ms 



A little weeping would ease my heart; 

But in their briny bed 
My tears must stop, for every drop 

Hinders needle and thread!" 

With fingers weary and worn, 

With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat in unwomanly rags, 

Plying her needle and thread, — 
Stitch! stitch! stitch! 

In poverty, hunger and dirt; 
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch — 
Would that its tone could reach the rich !- 

She sang the "Song of the Shirt." 




Mercy 



William Shakespeare 
fBorn April 23 (?), 1564; Died April 23, 1616) 



The quality of mercy is not strained; 

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven 

Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest, — 

It blesseth him that gives and him that takes: 

'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes 

The throned monarch better than his crown: 

His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, 

The attribute to awe and majesty. 

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; 

But mercy is above this sceptred sway, — 

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, 

It is an attribute to God himself; 

And earthly power doth then show likest God's, 

When mercy seasons justice. 

From "Merchant of Venice' 



Page Fifty-three 



)nie ^nnitxtit zcttit ®ti^ ^umttus l^xt:ems 




The Opening of the 
Piano 

Oliver Wendell Holmes 
(^Born August 29, 1809; Died October 7, 1894) 



In the little southern parlor of the house you may have 

seen 
With the gambrel-roof, and the gable looking westward 

to the green, 
At the side toward the sunset, with the window on its 

right. 
Stood the London-made piano I am dreaming of tonight! 



Ah me! how I remember the evening when it came! 
What a cry of eager voices, what a group of cheeks in 

flame, 
When the wondrous box was opened that had come from 

over seas, 
With its smell of mastic-varnish and its flash of ivory 

keys! 



Then the children all grew fretful in the restlessness of 

For the boy would push his sister, and the sister crowd 

the boy, 
Till the father asked for quiet in his grave paternal way. 
But the mother hushed the tumult with the words, "Now, 

Mary, play." 



For the dear soul knew that music was a very sovereign 

balm; 
She had sprinkled it over Sorrow and seen its brow grow 

calm. 
In the days of tender harpsichords with tapping tinkling 

quills. 
Or carolling to her spinet with its thin metallic thrills. 



Page Fifty-four 



©ite ^tttiitr^it zcnh ^nt ^tcmttns l^xt^ms 



So Mary, the household minstrel, who always loved to 
please, 

Sat down to the new ''Clementi," and struck the glitter- 
ing keys. 

Hushed were the children's voices, and every eye grew dim. 

As, floating from lip and finger, arose the "Vesper 
Hymn." 

Catharine, child of a neighbor, curly and rosy-red, 
(Wedded since, and a widow, — something like ten years 

dead). 
Hearing a gush of music such as none before, 
Steals from her mother's chamber and peeps at the open 

door. 

Just as the "Jubilate" in threaded whisper dies, 

"Open it! open it, lady!" the little maiden cries, 

(For she thought 't was a singing creature caged in a box 

she heard), 
"Open it! open it, lady! and let me see the bird!" 




Sonnet 

The World is Too Much With Us' 

William Wordsworth 
(Born April 7, 1770; Died April 23, 1850) 



The World is too much with us; late and soon. 
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; 
Little we see in Nature that is ours; 
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! 
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon; 
The winds that will be howling at all hours. 
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; 
For this, for everything, we are out of tune; 
It moves us not. — Great God! I'd rather be 
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn. 
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea. 
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; 
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea. 
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 



Page Fifty-five 



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The Duel 



Eugene Field 
fBorn September 3, 1850-^ Died November 4, 1895 J 



The gingham dog and the calico cat 

Side by side on the table sat; 

'T was half-past twelve, and (what do you think!) 

Nor one nor t' other had slept a wink! 

The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate 

Appeared to know as sure as fate 
There was going to be a terrible spat. 

(/ wasnt there; I simply state 

What was told to me by the Chinese plate!) 



The gingham dog went " bow- wow- wow ! " 
And the calico cat replied ''mee-ow!" 
The air was littered, an hour or so, 
With bits of gingham and calico, 

While the old Dutch clock in the chimney-place 

Up with its hands before its face, 
For it always dreaded a family row! 

{Never mind: Fm only telling you 
What the old Dutch clock declares is true!) 



The Chinese plate looked very blue, 
And wailed, "Oh, dear! what shall we do!" 
But the gingham dog and the calico cat 
Wallowed this way and tumbled that. 
Employing every tooth and claw 
In the awfullest way you ever saw — 
And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew! 

{Don t fancy I exaggerate — 

/ got my news from the Chinese plate!) 



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Next morning where the two had sat 
They found no trace of dog or cat; 
And some folks think unto this day 
That burglars stole that pair away! 

But the truth about the cat and pup 

Is this: they ate each other up! 
Now what do you really think of that! 

(The old Dutch clock it told me so, 
And that is how I came to know.) 

From "The Poems of Eugene Field." 
Copyright 1911. Charles Scribner's Sons. 




Song 
of the Chattahoochee 

Sidney Lanier 
fBorn February 3, 1842; Died September 7, 1881) 



Out of the hills of Habersham, 

Down the valleys of Hall, 
I hurry amain to reach the plain, 
Run the rapid and leap the fall. 
Split at the rock and together again. 
Accept my bed, or narrow or wide. 
And flee from folly on every side 
With a lover's pain to attain the plain 

Far from the hills of Habersham, 

Far from the valleys of Hall. 

All down the hills of Habersham, 

All through the valleys of Hall, 
The rushes cried Abide , abide, 
The willful waterweeds held me thrall, 
The laving laurel turned my tide. 
The ferns and the fondling grass said ^tay, 
The dewberry dipped for to work delay. 
And the little reeds sighed Abide, abide, 

Here in the hills of Habersham, 

Here in the valleys of Hall. 



Page Fifty-seven 



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High o'er the hills of Habersham, 

Veiling the valleys of Hall, 
The hickory told me manifold 
Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall 
Wrought me her shadowy self to hold, 
The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine, 
Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign. 
Said, Pass not, so cold, these manifold 

Deep shades of the hills of Habersham, 

These glades in the valleys of Hall. 

And oft in the hills of Habersham, 

And oft in the valleys of Hall, 
The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook-ston; 
Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl. 
And many a luminous jewel lone — 
Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist. 
Ruby, garnet and amethyst — 
Made lures with the lights of streaming stone 

In the clefts of the hills of Habersham, 

In the beds of the valleys of Hall. 

But oh, not the hills of Habersham, 

And oh, not the valleys of Hall 
Avail: I am fain to water the plain. 
Downward the voices of Duty call — 
Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main; 
The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn, 
And a myriad flowers mortally yearn. 
And the lordly main beyond the plain 

Calls o'er the hills of Habersham, 

Calls through the valleys of Hall. 



From "Poems of Sidney Lanier." 
Copyrigiit 1884 and 1891. Pub- 
lished by Charles Scribner's Sons. 



Page Fifty-eight 



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Ode on Intimations of 
Immortality 

From Recollections of Early Childhood 

William Wordsworth 

/^Born April 7, 1770; Died April 23, 1850) 



The Child is father of the Man; 
And I could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety. 

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 
The earth, and every common sight, 
To me did seem 
Apparelled in celestial light. 
The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
It is not now as it hath been of yore; — 
Turn wheresoe'er I may. 
By night or day, 
The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 

The rainbow comes and goes. 

And lovely is the rose; 

The moon doth with delight 
Look round her when the heavens are bare; 

Waters on a starry night 

Are beautiful and fair; 
The sunshine is a glorious birth; 
But yet I know, where'er I go, 
That there hath past away a glory from the earth. 

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, 
And while the young lambs bound 

As to the tabor's sound. 
To me alone there came a thought of grief: 
A timely utterance gave that thought relief. 

And I again am strong. 
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; — 
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong: 
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng, 
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, 

And all the earth is gay; 
Land and sea 



Page Fifty- nine 



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Give themselves up to jollity, 

And with the heart of May 
Doth every beast keep holiday; — 
Thou child of joy 
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 
shepherd-boy! 

Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call 

Ye to each other make; I see 
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; 
My heart is at your festival. 
My head hath its coronal, 
The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all. 
Oh evil day! if I were sullen 
While Earth herself is adorning 

This sweet May-morning; 
And the children are culling 

On every side 
In a thousand valleys far and wide, 
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm 
And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm: — 
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! 
— But there's a tree, of many, one, 
A single field which I have look'd upon. 
Both of them speak of something that is gone: 
The pansy at my feet 
Doth the same tale repeat: 
Whither is fled the visionary gleam? 
Where is it now, the glory and the dream? 

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; 
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 
Hath had elsewhere its setting 

And cometh from afar; 
Not in entire forgetfulness, 
And not in utter nakedness, 
But trailing clouds of glory do we come 

From God, who is our home: 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing Boy, 
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows. 

He sees it in his joy; 
The Youth, who daily farther from the east 
Must travel, still is Nature's priest. 
And by the vision splendid 
Is on his way attended; 
At length the Man perceives it die away, 
And fade into the light of common day. 



Page Sixty 



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Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; 
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, 
And, even with something of a mother's mind, 
And no unworthy aim, 
The homely nurse doth all she can 
To make her foster-child, her inmate, Man, 

Forget the glories he hath known, 
And that imperial palace whence he came. 

Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, 
A six years' darling of a pigmy size! 
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, 
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses. 
With light upon him from his father's eyes! 
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart. 
Some fragment from his dream of human life, 
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art; 

A wedding or a festival, 

A mourning or a funeral; 

And this hath now his heart. 

And unto this he frames his song; 
Then will he fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife; 

But it will not be long 

Ere this be thrown aside, 

And with new joy and pride 
The little actor cons another part; 
Filling from time to time his 'humorous stage' 
With all the persons, down to palsied Age, 
That Life brings with her in her equipage; 

As if his whole vocation 

Were endless imitation. 

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 

Thy soul's immensity; 
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep 
Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind. 
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 
Haunted for ever by the eternal Mind, — 

Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! 

On whom those truths do rest 
Which we are toiling all our lives to find. 
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; 
Thou, over whom thy Immortality 
Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, 
A Presence which is not to be put by; 
Thou little child, yet glorious in the might 
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, 
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 



Page Sixty-one 



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The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? 
Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, 
And custom lie upon thee with a weight 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! 

O joy! that in our embers 
Is something that doth live, 
That nature yet remembers 
What was so fugitive! 
The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
Perpetual benediction: not indeed 
For that which is most worthy to be blest. 
Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest. 
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in her breast: — 
Not for these I raise 
The song of thanks and praise; 
But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things. 
Fallings from us, vanishings; 
Blank misgivings of a creature 
Moving about in worlds not realized. 
High instincts, before which our mortal nature 
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised: 
But for those first affections. 
Those shadowy recollections. 

Which, be they what they may. 
Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, 
Are yet a master-light of all our seeing; 

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake, 

To perish never; 
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour. 

Nor man nor boy 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy. 
Can utterly abolish or destroy! 

Hence in a season of calm weather. 
Though inland far we be. 
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 
Which brought us hither; 
Can in a moment travel thither, 
And see the children sport upon the shore, 
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 

Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! 
And let the young lambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound! 



Page Sixty-two 



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We in thought will join your throng 
Ye that pipe and ye that play, 
Ye that through your hearts today 
Feel the gladness of the May! 

What though the radiance which was once so bright 

Be now for ever taken from my sight, 

Though nothing can bring back the hour 

Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; 
We will grieve not, rather find 
Strength in what remains behind; 
In the primal sympathy 
Which having been must ever be; 
In the soothing thoughts that spring 
Out of human suffering; 
In the faith that looks through death, 

In years that bring the philosophic mind. 

And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, 

Forbode not any severing of our loves! 

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; 

I only have relinquished one delight 

To live beneath your more habitual sway: 

I love the brooks which down their channels fret 

Even more than when I tripped lightly as they; 

The innocent brightness of a new-born day 

Is lovely yet; 
The clouds that gather round the setting sun 
Do take a sober colouring from an eye 
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; 
Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
Thanks to the human heart by which we live. 
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears. 
To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 



Page Sixty-three 



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Each In His Own 
Tongue 

William Herbert Carruth 
("Born April 5, 1859; ) 



A fire-mist and a planet, 

A crystal and a cell, 
A jelly-fish and a saurian, 

And caves where the cave-men dwell; 
Then a sense of law and beauty 

And a face turned from the clod — 
Some call it Evolution, 

And others call it God. 

A haze on the far horizon. 

The infinite, tender sky, 
The ripe rich tint of the cornfields. 

And the wild geese sailing high — 
And all over upland and lowland 

The charm of the golden-rod — 
Some of us call it Autumn" 

And others call it God. 

Like tides on a crescent sea-beach. 

When the moon is new and thin. 
Into our hearts high yearnings 

Come welling and surging in — 
Come from the mystic ocean. 

Whose rim no foot has trod, — 
Some of us call it Longing, 

And others call it God. 

A picket frozen on duty, 

A mother starved for her brood, 
Socrates drinking the hemlock. 

And Jesus on the rood; 
And millions who, humble and nameless. 

The straight, hard pathway plod, — 
Some call it Consecration, 

And others call it God. 

From "Each in His Own Tongue and Other 
Poems." G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York. 



Page Sixty-four 



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Letter to a Young 
Friend 

Robert Burns 

f Born January 25, 1759; Died July 21, 1796) 



1 lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend, 

A something to have sent you, 
Tho' it should serve nae ither end 

Than just a kind memento: 
But how the subject-theme may gang, 

Let time and chance determine: 
Perhaps it may turn out a sang; 

Perhaps, turn out a sermon. 

Ye'll try the world soon, my lad; 

And, Andrew dear, believe me, 
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad. 

And muckle they may grieve ye: 
For care and trouble set your thought, 

Ev'n when your end's attained: 
And a' your views may come to nought. 

Where every nerve is strained. 

I'll no say, men are villains a': 

The real, harden'd wicked, 
Wha hae nae check but human law, 

Are to a few restricked; 
But, och! mankind are unco weak 

An' little to be trusted; 
If Self the wavering balance shake, 

It's rarely right adjusted! 

Yet they wha fa' in Fortune's strife, 

Their fate we should na censure; 
For still, th' important end of life 

They equally may answer: 
A man may hae an honest heart, 

Tho' poortith hourly stare him; 
A man may tak a neebor's part, 

Yet hae nae cash to spare him. 



Page Sixty-five 



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Ay free, afF han', your story tell, 

When wi' a bosom cronie; 
But still keep something to yoursel 

Ye scarcely tell to onie: 
Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can 

Frae critical dissection: 
But keek thro' every other man 

Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection. 

The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love, 

Luxuriantly indulge it; 
But never tempt th' illicit rove, 

Tho' naething should divulge it: 
I waive the quantum o' the sin. 

The hazard of concealing; 
But, och! it hardens a' within, 

And petrifies the feeling! 

To catch Dame Fortune's golden smile, 

Assiduous wait upon her; 
And gather gear by every wile 

That's justify'd by honour: 
Not for to hide it in a hedge. 

Nor for a train-attendant; 
But for the glorious privilege 

Of being independent. 

The fear o' Hell's a hangman's whip 

To baud the wretch in order; 
But where ye feel your honour grip. 

Let that ay be your border: 
Its slightest touches, instant pause — 

Debar a' side-pretences; 
And resolutely keep its laws, 

Uncaring consequences. 

The great Creator to revere 

Must sure become the creature; 
But still the preaching cant forbear 

And ev'n the rigid feature: 
Yet ne'er with wits profane to range 

Be complaisance extended; 
An atheist-laugh's a poor exchange 

For Deity offended ! 

When ranting round in Pleasure's ring, 

Religion may be blinded; 
Or if she gie a random sting. 

It may be little minded; 



Page Sixty-six 



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But when on Life we're tempest-driv'n — 

A conscience but a canker — 
A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n 

Is sure a noble anchor! 

Adieu, dear, amiable youth! 

Your heart can ne'er be wanting! 
May prudence, fortitude, and truth. 

Erect your brow undaunting! 
In ploughman phrase, '*God send you speed," 

Still daily to grow wiser; 
And may ye better reck the rede, 

Than ever did th' adviser! 




The 
Deacon's Masterpiece 

or "The One-Hoss Shay" 

Oliver Wendell Holmes 
(Born August 29, 1809; Died October 7, 1894) 



Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay. 

That was built in such a logical way 

It ran a hundred years to a day. 

And then, of a sudden, it— ah, but stay, 

I'll tell you what happened without delay. 

Scaring the parson into fits. 

Frightening people out of their wits, — 

Have you heard of that, I say? 

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five. 
Georgius Secundus was then alive, — 
Snuffy old drone from the German hive. 
That was the year when Lisbon-town 
Saw the earth open and gulp her down. 
And Braddock's army was done so brown. 
Left without a scalp to its crown. 
It was on the terrible Earthquake-day 
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss sha}^. 



Page Sixty-seven 



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Now in building of chaises, I tell you what, 
There is always somewhere a weakest spot, — 
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill. 
In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill. 
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, — lurking still. 
Find it somewhere you must and will, — 
Above or below, or within or without, — 
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, 
A chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out. 

But the Deacon swore, (as Deacons do, 
With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou,") 
He would build one shay to beat the taown 
'N the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun'; 
It should be so built that it couldn break daown: 
— "Fur," said the Deacon* '* 't's mighty plain 
Thut the weakes' places mus' stan' the strain; 
'N the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, 

Is only jest 
T' make that place uz strong uz the rest." 
So the Deacon inquired of the village folk 
Where he could find the strongest oak. 
That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke, — 
That was for spokes and floor and sills; 
He sent for lancewood to make the thills; 
The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees; 
The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese, 
But lasts like iron for things like these; 
The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum," — 
Last of its timber, — they couldn't sell 'em. 
Never an axe had seen their chips, 
And the wedges flew from between their lips, 
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery- tips; 
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw. 
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too. 
Steel of the finest, bright and blue; 
Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide; 
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide 
Found in the pit when the tanner died. 
That was the way he "put her through." — 
"There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew!^' 

Do! I tell you, I rather guess 

She was a wonder, and nothing less! 

Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, 

Deacon and deaconess dropped away, 

Children and grandchildren — where were they.? 

But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay 

As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day! 



Page Sixty-eight 



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EIGHTEEN HUNDRED;— it came and found 
The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. 
Eighteen hundred increased by ten; — 
"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then. 
Eighteen hundred and twenty came; — 
Running as usual; much, the same. 
Thirty and forty at last arrive, 
And then come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE. 

Little of all we value here 

Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year 

Without both feeling and looking queer. 

In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth, 

So far as I know, but a tree and truth. 

(This is a moral that runs at large; 

Take it. You're welcome. No extra charge.) 

FIRST OF NOVEMBER,— the Earthquake-day. 

There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, 

A general flavor of mild decay, 

But nothing local as one may say. 

There couldn't be, — for the Deacon's art 

Had made it so like in every part 

That there wasn't a chance for one to start. 

For the wheels were just as strong as the thills, 

And the floor was just as strong as the sills, 

And the panels just as strong as the floor. 

And the whippletree neither less nor more, 

And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore, 

And spring and axle and hub encore. 

And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt 

In another hour it will be worn out! 

First of November, 'Fifty-five! 

This morning the parson takes a drive. 

Now, small boys, get out of the way! 

Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, 

Drawn by a rat- tailed, ewe-necked bay. 

"Huddup!" said the parson. Off went they. 

The parson was working his Sunday's text, — 

Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed 

At what the — Moses — was coming next. 

All at once the horse stood still. 

Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill. 

— First a shiver, and then a thrill, 

Then something decidedly like a spill, — 

And the parson was sitting up on a rock. 

At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock, — 

Just the hour of the Earthquake shock! 

— What do you think the parson found, 

Page Sixty-nine 



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When he got up and stared around? 
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, 
As if it had been to the mill and ground! 
You see, of course, if you're not a dunce, 
How it went to pieces all at once, — 
All at once, and nothing first, — 
Just as bubbles do when they burst. 

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. 
Logic is logic. That's all I say. 




The Building of the 
Ship 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 
f'Born February 27, 1807; Died March 24, 1882) 



Then the Master, 

With a gesture of command. 

Waved his hand; 

And at the word. 

Loud and sudden there was heard. 

All around them and below, 

The sound of hammers, blow on blow. 

Knocking away the shores and spurs. 

And see! she stirs! 

She starts — she moves — she seems to feel 

The thrill of life along her keel, 

And, spurning with her foot the ground, 

With one exulting, joyous bound, 

She leaps into the ocean's arms! 

And lo! from the assembled crowd 
There rose a shout, prolonged and loud, 
That to the ocean seemed to say, 
"Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray, 
Take her to thy protecting arms, 
With all her youth and all her charms!" 



Page Seventy 



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How beautiful she is! How fair 

She lies within those arms, that press 

Her form with many a soft caress 

Of tenderness and watchful care! 

Sail forth into the sea, O ship! 

Through wind and wave, right onward steer! 

The moistened eye, the trembling lip, 

Are not the signs of doubt or fear. 

Sail forth into the sea of life, 
O gentle, loving, trusting wife, 
And safe from all adversity 
Upon the bosom of that sea 
Thy comings and thy goings be! 
For gentleness and love and trust 
Prevail o'er angry wave and gust; 
And in the wreck of noble lives 
Something immortal still survives ! 

Thou, too, sail on, O ship of State! 

Sail on, O Union, strong and great! 

Humanity with all its fears. 

With all the hopes of future years, 

Is hanging breathless on thy fate! 

We know what Master laid thy keel. 

What Workman wrought thy ribs of steel, 

Who made each mast, and sail, and rope. 

What anvils rang, what hammers beat, 

In what a forge and what a heat, 

Were shaped the anchors of thy hope! 

Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 

'Tis of the wave and not the rock; 

'Tis but the flapping of the sail. 

And not a rent made by the gale. 

In spite of rock and tempest's roar, 

In spite of false lights on the shore. 

Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea! 

Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee. 

Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, 

Our faith triumphant o'er our fears. 

Are all with thee — are all with thee ! 



Page Seventy-one 



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Solitude 

Ella Wheeler Wilcox 
fBorn No<vember S, 1855; J 



Laugh, and the world laughs with you; 

Weep, and you weep alone. 
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth, 

But has trouble enough of its own. 
Sing, and the hills will answer; 

Sigh, it is lost on the air. 
The echoes bound to a joyful sound. 

But shrink from voicing care. 

Rejoice, and men will seek you; 

Grieve, and they turn and go. 
They want full measure of all your pleasure, 

But they do not need your woe. 
Be glad, and your friends are many; 

Be sad, and you lose them all. 
There are none to decline your nectared wine. 

But alone you must drink life's gall. 

Feast, and your halls are crowded; 

Fast, and the world goes by. 
Succeed and give, and it helps you live, 

But no man can help you die. 
There is room in the halls of pleasure 

For a long and lordly train. 
But one by one we must all file on 

Through the narrow aisles of pain. 



Reprinted from "Poems of Passion" 
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox. By special 
permission W. B. Conkey Company, 
Hammond, Ind. 



Page Seventy-two 



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Knee-Deep in June 

James Whitcomb Riley 

"On an early day in a memorable October, Reuben A. Riley 
and his wife, Elizabeth Marine Riley, rejoiced over the birth 

of their second son. They called him James Whitcomb ." 

From "The Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley" 

Bobbs-Merrill Company (in 6 volumes.) 

Mr. Riley always replies when asked the direct question as to his 

age, "I am this side of forty." Oct. 7, 185 J, is the generally 

accepted date of his birth. 



Photograph by Mecca Studio 



Tell you what I like the best — 
'Long about knee-deep in June, 

'Bout the time strawberries melts 

On the vine, — some afternoon 

Like to jes' git out and rest. 
And not work at nothin' else! 

Orchard's where I'd ruther be — 
Needn't fence it in fer me! — 

Jes' the whole sky overhead, 
And the whole airth underneath — 
Sorto' so's a man kin breathe 

Like he ort, and kindo' has 
Elbow room to keerlessly 

Sprawl out len'thways on the grass 
Where the shadders thick and soft 

As the kivvers on the bed 
Mother fixes in the loft 

Alius, when they's company! 

Jes' a-sorto' lazin' there — 

S'lazy, 'at you peek and peer 
Through the wavin' leaves above. 
Like a feller 'at's in love 

And don't know it, ner don't keer! 
Ever'thing you hear and see 
Got some sorto' interest — 
Maybe find a bluebird's nest ■ 
Tucked up there conveenently 
Fer the boy 'at 's ap' to be 
Up some other apple-tree! 
Watch the swallers skootin' past 
'Bout as peert as you could ast; 
Er the Bob-white raise and whiz 
Where some other's whistle is. 



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Ketch a shadder down below, 
And look up to find the crow — 
Er a hawk — away up there, 
'Peerantly froze in the air! — 

Hear the old hen squawk, and squat 

Over ever' chick she's got, 
Suddent-like — and she knows where 

That-air hawk is, well as you! — 

You jes' bet yer life she do! — 
Eyes a-glitterin' like glass, 
Waitin' till he makes a pass! 

Pee-wees' singin', to express 

My opinion, 's second class, 
Yit you'll hear 'em more er less; 

Sapsucks gittin' down to biz, 
Weedin' out the lonesomeness; 
Mr. Bluejay, full o' sass. 

In them base-ball clothes o' his, 
Sportin' round the orchard jes' 
Like he owned the premises! 

Sun out in the fields kin sizz, 
But flat on yer back, I guess. 

In the shade 's where glory is! 
That's jes' what I'd like to do 
Stiddy fer a year er two! 

Plague! ef they ain't somepin' in 
Work 'at kindo' goes ag'in 
My convictions! — 'long about 
Here in June especially! — 
Under some old apple-tree, 

Jes' a-restin' through and through, 
I could git along without 
Nothin' else at all to do 
Only jes' a-wishin' you 
Wuz a-gittin' there like me. 
And June was eternity! 

Lay out there and try to see 
Jes' how lazy you kin be! — ■ 

Tumble round and souse yer head 
In the clover-bloom, er pull 
Yer straw hat acrost yer eyes 
And peek through it at the skies, 
Thinkin' of old chums 'at 's dead, 
Maybe smilin' back at you 
r betwixt the beautiful 

Clouds o' gold and white and blue!- 
Month a man kin railly love- 
June, you know, I'm talkin' of! 

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March aint never nothin' new! — 
Aprile's altogether too 

Brash fer me! and May— I jes' 

'Bominate its promises, — 
Little hints o' sunshine and 
Green around the timber-land — 

A few promises, and a few 

Chip-birds, and a sprout er two, — 
Drap asleep, and it turns in 
'Fore daylight and snows ag'in! — 

But when June comes — Clear my throat 
With wild honey! — Rench my hair 

In the dew! and hold my coat! 

Whoop out loud! and throw my hat! — 

June wants me, and I'm to spare! 

Spread them shadders anywhere, 

I'll git down and waller there. 
And obleeged to you at that! 



From "Afterwhiles," by James VVhitcomb Rilej'. 
Copyright 1898. Used by special permission 
of the Publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company. 



Opportunity 

John James Ingalls 
fBoni December 29, 1833; Died July 16, 1900) 




Master of human destinies am I. 

Fame, love, and fortune on my footsteps wait, 

Cities and fields I walk; I penetrate 

Deserts and seas remote, and, passing by 

Hovel, and mart, and palace, soon or late 

I knock unbidden once at every gate! 

If sleeping, wake — if feasting, rise before 

I turn away. It is the hour of fate. 

And they who follow me reach every state 

Mortals desire, and conquer every foe 

Save death; but those who doubt or hesitate. 

Condemned to failure, penury and woe. 

Seek me in vain and uselessly implore — 

I answer not, and I return no more. 



Page Seventy-five 



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Waiting 

John Burroughs 

(Born April 3, 1837', ) 



Serene, I fold my hands and wait, 
Nor care for wind nor tide nor sea; 

I rave no more 'gainst time or fate, 
For lo! my own shall come to me. 

I stay my haste, I make delays — 
For what avails this eager pace? 

I stand amid the eternal ways 

And what is mine shall know my face. 

Asleep, awake, by night or day. 
The friends I seek are seeking me. 

No wind can drive my bark astray 
Nor change the tide of destiny. 

What matter if I stand alone.? 

I wait with joy the coming years; 
My heart shall reap where it has sown, 

And garner up its fruit of tears. 

The waters know their own, and draw 
The brook that springs in yonder height; 

So flows the good with equal law 
Unto the soul of pure delight. 

The stars come nightly to the sky; 

The tidal wave unto the sea; 
Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high, 

Can keep my own away from me. 



Page Seventy-six 



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Paul Revere's Ride 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 
f^Born February 27, 1807; Died March ?A, 1882, 



Listen, my children, and you shall hear 

Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, 

On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five; 

Hardly a man is now alive 

Who remembers that famous day and year. 

He said to his friend, '*If the British march 
By land or sea from the town to-night. 
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch 
Of the North Church tower as a signal light, — - 
One if by land, and two if by sea; 
And I on the opposite shore will be, 
Ready to ride and spread the alarm 
Through every Middlesex village and farm. 
For the country folk to be up and to arm." 

Then he said '* Good-night!" and with muffled oai 

Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore. 

Just as the moon rose over the bay, 

Where swinging wide at her moorings lay 

The Somerset, British man-of-war; 

A phantom ship, with each mast and spar ' 

Across the moon like a prison bar. 

And a huge black hulk, that was magnified 

By its own reflection in the tide. 

Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street 
Wanders and watches, with eager ears, 
Till in the silence around him he hears 
The muster of men at the barrack door. 
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet. 
And the measured tread of the grenadiers, 
Marching down to their boats on the shore. 



Page Seventy-seven 



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Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church, 

By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, 

To the belfry chamber overhead, 

And startled the pigeons from their perch 

On the sombre rafters, that round him made 

Masses and moving shapes of shade, — 

By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, 

To the highest window in the wall, 

Where he paused to listen and look down 

A moment on the roofs of the town 

And the moonlight flowing over all. 

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead. 

In their night encampment on the hill, 

Wrapped in silence so deep and still 

That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, 

The watchful night-wind, as it went 

Creeping along from tent to tent, 

And seeming to whisper, "All is well!" 

A moment only he feels the spell 

Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread 

Of the lonely belfry and the dead; 

For suddenly all his thoughts are bent 

On a shadowy something far away. 

Where the river widens to meet the bay, — 

A line of black that bends and floats 

On the rising tide like a bridge of boats. 

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, 
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride 
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. 
Now he patted his horse's side. 
Now he gazed at the landscape far and near, 
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth, 
And turned and tightened his saddle girth; 
But mostly he watched with eager search 
The belfry tower of the Old North Church, 
As it rose above the graves on the hill. 
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. 
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height 
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! 
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, 
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight 
A second lamp in the belfry burns. 

A hurry of hoofs in a village street, 

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, 

And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark 



Page Seventy-eight 



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Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet; 
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the 

light, 
The fate of a nation was riding that night; 
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, 
Kindled the land into flame with its heat. 
He has left the village and mounted the steep. 
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, 
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; 
And under the alders that skirt its edge. 
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, 
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. 

It was twelve by the village clock 

When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. 

He heard the crowing of the cock, 

And the barking of the farmer's dog, 

And felt the damp of the river fog. 

That rises after the sun goes down. 

It was one by the village clock, 

When he galloped into Lexington. 

He saw the gilded weathercock 

Swim in the moonlight as he passed. 

And the meeting-house windows, black and bare, 

Gaze at him with a spectral glare, 

As if they already stood aghast 

At the bloody work they would look upon. 

It was two by the village clock, 

When he came to the bridge in Concord town. 

He heard the bleating of the flock. 

And the twitter of birds among the trees, 

And felt the breath of the morning breeze 

Blowing over the meadow brown. 

And one was safe and asleep in his bed 

Who at the bridge would be first to fall, 

Who that day would be lying dead, 

Pierced by a British musket ball. 

You know the rest. In the books you have read, 
How the British Regulars fired and fled, — 
How the farmers gave them ball for ball. 
From behind each fence and farmyard wall, 
Chasing the redcoats down the lane. 
Then crossing the fields to emerge again 
Under the trees at the turn of the road, 
And only pausing to fire and load. 



Page Seventy-nine 



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So through the night rode Paul Revere; 

And so through the night went his cry of alarm 

To every Middlesex village and farm, — 

A cry of defiance, and not of fear, 

A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, 

And a word that shall echo for evermore! 

For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, 

Through all our history, to the last. 

In the hour of darkness and peril and need, 

The people will waken and listen to hear 

The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed. 

And the midnight message of Paul Revere. 




That Time of Year 

William Shakespeare 
fBorn April 23 (?), 1564; Died April 23, 1616 J 



That time of year thou may'st in me behold 
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang 
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, 
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang: 

In me thou see'st the twilight of such day 
As after sunset fadeth in the west, 
Which by and by black night doth take away. 
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest: 

In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire 
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, 
As the death-bed whereon it must expire, 
Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by: 

— This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more 

strong, 
To love that well which thou must leave ere long. 



Page Eighty 



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The House by the Side 
of the Road 

Samuel Walter Foss 
(^Born June 19, 1858; Died February 26, 1911) 



He was a friend to man, and he lived 

in a house by the side of the road." — Homer. 

There are hermit souls that live withdrawn 

In the place of their self content; 
There are souls like stars, that dwell apart, 

In a fellowless firmament; 
There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths 

Where highways never ran — 
But let me live by the side of the road 

And be a friend to man. 

Let me live in a house by the side of the road, 

Where the race of men go by — 
The men who are good and the men who are bad, 

As good and as bad as I. 
I would not sit in the scorner's seat. 

Or hurl the cynic's ban — 
Let me live in a house by the side of the road 

And be a friend to man. 

I see from my house by the side of the road, 

By the side of the highway of life, 
The men who press with the ardor of hope, 

The men who are faint with the strife. 
But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears. 

Both parts of an infinite plan — 
Let me live in a house by the side of the road 

And be a friend to man. 

I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead 

And mountains of wearisome height; 
That the road passes on through the long afternoon 

And stretches away to the night. 
But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice. 

And weep with the strangers that moan. 
Nor live in my house by the side of the road 

Like a man who dwells alone. 



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Let me live in my house by the side of the road — 

It's here the race of men go by. 
They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are 
strong. 

Wise, foolish — so am I; 
Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat. 

Or hurl the cynic's ban? 
Let me live in my house by the side of the road 

And be a friend to man. 



Used by special arrangement with the 
publishers, Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. 



Abou Ben Adhem 

James Henry Leigh Hunt 
f'Born October 19, 1784; Died August 28, 1859) 



Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) 

Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, 

And saw, within the moonlight in his room, 

Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, 

An Angel writing in a book of gold : 

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, 

And to the Presence in the room he said, 

"What writest thou.?" The Vision raised its head, 

And with a look made of all sweet accord 

Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord," 

"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so," 

Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low. 

But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then, 

Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." 

The Angel wrote, and vanished. The next night 
It came again with a great wakening light, 
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed. 
And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest! 



Page Eighty-two 



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The Bells 



Edgar Allan Poe 
fBorn January 19, 1809; Died Octoier 7, 1849) 



Hear the sledges with the bells — 
Silver bells! 
What a world of merriment their melody foretells ! 
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 

In the icy air of night ! 
While the stars that oversprinkle 
All the heavens, seem to twinkle 

With a crystalline delight; 
Keeping time, time, time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells 
From the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells, — 
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 

Hear the mellow wedding bells. 
Golden bells! 
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! 
Through the balmy air of night 
How they ring out their delight! 
From the molten-golden notes. 

And all in tune, 
What a liquid ditty floats 
To the turtle dove that listens, while she gloats 
On the moon! 
Oh, from out the sounding cells, 
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! 
How it swells ! 
How it dwells 
On the Future! how it tells 
Of the rapture that impels 
To the swinging and the ringing 

Of the bells, bells, bells. 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells — 
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! 



Page Eighty-three 



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Hear the loud alarum bells — 
Brazen bells! 
What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells! 
In the startled ear of night 
How they scream out their affright! 
Too much horrified to speak 
They can only shriek, shriek, 
Out of tune, 
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, 
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire, 
Leaping higher, higher, higher, 
With a desperate desire, 
And a resolute endeavor. 
Now — now to sit or never, 
By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
Oh, the bells, bells, bells! 
What a tale their terror tells 

Of despair! 
How they clang, and clash, and roar! 
What a horror they outpour 
On the bosom of the palpitating air! 
Yet the ear it fully knows, 
By the twanging. 
And the clanging, 
How the danger ebbs and flows; 
Yet the ear distinctly tells, 
In the jangling. 
And the wrangling, 
How the danger sinks and swells, 
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells — 
Of the bells— 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells — 
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells! 

Hear the tolling of the bells — 
Iron bells! 
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels^ 
In the silence of the night, 
How we shiver with affright 
At the melancholy menace of their tone! 
For every sound that floats 
From the rust within their throats 

Is a groan. 
And the people — ah, the people — 
They that dwell up in the steeple. 
All alone. 
And who tolling, tolling, tolling. 
In that muffled monotone, 



Page Eighty-four 



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Feel a glory in so rolling 

On the human heart a stone — 
They are neither man nor woman — 
They are neither brute nor human — 

They are Ghouls: 
And their king it is who tolls; 
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, 
Rolls 
A paean from the bells! 
And his merry bosom swells 

With the paean of the bells! 
And he dances, and he yells; 
Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
To the paean of the bells — 
Of the bells: 
Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 

To the throbbing of the bells — 
Of the bells, bells, bells — 
To the sobbing of the bells; 
Keeping time, time, time. 
As he knells, knells, knells, 
In a happy Runic rhyme, 

To the rolling of the bells — 
Of the bells, bells, bells— 

To the tolling of the bells. 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells — 
Bells, bells, bells — 
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells! 



Page Eighty-five 



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Elegy Written in 
a Country Church- Yard 

Thomas Gray 
/^Born December 26, 1716; Died July 30, 1771) 



From the picture by John G. Eccardt in 

the National Portrait Gallery. 

Courtesy, The Academy 



The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, 

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight. 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; 

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 
The moping owl does to the moon complain 

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower. 
Molest her ancient, solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade. 
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, 

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn. 

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed. 

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn. 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care; 

No children run to lisp their sire's return, 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; 

How jocund did they drive their team afield! 

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! 



Page Eighty-six 



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Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 

Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 

Awaits alike the inevitable hour: 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault. 
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise 

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

Can storied urn or animated bust 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath.? 

Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust. 
Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; 

Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, 
Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre; 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; 

Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene 

The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear: 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood, 

Some mute, inglorious Milton, here may rest; 
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. 

The applause of list'ning senates to command, 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land. 

And read their history in a nation's eyes, 

Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone 

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; 

Forbade to wade thro' slaughter to a throne. 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; 



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The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 

Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 
Their sober wishes never learned to stray; 

Along the cool sequestered vale of life 

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet even these bones from insult to protect, 

Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, 

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse, 

The place of fame and elegy supply: 
And many a holy text around she strews 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 
This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind .? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires; 

Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, 
Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee who, mindful of the unhonor'd dead, 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; 

If chance, by lonely contemplation led, 

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, — 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say: 
''Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn, 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away. 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 

"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high. 

His listless length at noontide would he stretch. 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would rove; 

Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn, 
Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. 



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**One morn I missed him on the custom'd hill, 
Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; 

Another came, — nor yet beside the rill, 
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he: 

**The next, with dirges due, in sad array, 

Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne; — 
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 

Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 

THE EPITAPH 

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, 
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown; 

Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, 
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; 

Heaven did a recompense as largely send: 
He gave to misery all he had, a tear; 

He gained from heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, — 

(There they alike in trembling hope repose,) 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 



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Cuddle Doon 

Alexander Anderson 
fLorn April 30, 1845; Died July 11, 1909 J 



The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht 

Wi' muckle fash an' din. 
'*0h, try and sleep, ye waukrife rogues; 

Your faither's comin' in." 
They never heed a word I speak. 

I try to gie a froon; 
But aye I hap them up, an' cry, 

"Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon!" 

Wee Jamie wi' the curly heid — 

He aye sleeps next the wa' — 
Bangs up an' cries, "I want a piece" — 

The rascal starts them a'. 
I rin an' fetch them pieces, drinks — 

They stop awee the soun' — 
Then draw the blankets up, an' cry, 

**Noo, weanies, cuddle doon!" 

But ere five minutes gang, wee Rab 

Cries oot, frae 'neath the claes, 
'*Mither, mak' Tam gie ower at ance: 

He's kittlin' wi' his taes." 
The mischief's in that Tam for tricks; 

He'd bother half the toon. 
But aye I hap them up, an' cry, 

'*0h, bairnies, cuddle doon!" 

At length they hear their father's fit; 

An', as he steeks the door, 
They turn their faces to the wa', 

While Tam pretends to snore. 
"Hae a' the weans been gude.^*" he asks, 

As he pits afF his shoon. 
'*The bairnies, John, are in their beds, 

An' lang since cuddled doon." 



Page Ninety 



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An' just afore we bed oorsels, 

We look at oor wee lambs. 
Tarn has his airm roun' wee Rab's neck, 

An' Rab his airm roun' Tam's. 
I lift wee Jamie up the bed, 

An' as I straik each croon, 
I whisper, till my heart fills up, 

'*0h, bairnies, cuddle doon!" 

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht 

Wi' mirth that's dear to me; 
But soon the big warl's cark an' care 

Will quaten doon their glee. 
Yet, come what will to ilka ane, 

May He who rules aboon 
Aye whisper, though their pows be bald, 

"Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon!" 




Sonnet 
On His Blindness 

John Milton 
(Born December P, 1608-^ Died November <?, 1674) 



When I consider how my light is spent 

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, 
And that one talent, which is death to hide. 
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent 
To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
My true account, lest He, returning, chide: 
*'Doth God exact day labor, light denied.?" 
I fondly ask; but Patience, to prevent 

That murmur, soon replies, ''God doth not need 
Either man's work, or His own gifts; who best 
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. 
His state 
Is kingly. Thousands at His bidding speed, 
And post o'er land and ocean without rest; 
They also serve who only stand and wait." 



Page Ninety-one 



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Thanatopsis 

William Cullen Bryant 
f^Born November S, 1794; Died June 12, 1878 J 



To him who, in the love of Nature, holds 

Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 

A various language: for his gayer hours 

She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 

And eloquence of beauty; and she glides 

Into his darker musings, with a mild 

And healing sympathy, that steals away 

Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts 

Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 

0:ver thy spirit, and sad images 

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 

And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, 

Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart, — 

Go forth under the open sky, and list 

To Nature's teachings, while from all around — 

Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — 

Comes a still voice: — Yet a few days, and thee 

The all-beholding sun shall see no more 

In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground. 

Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears. 

Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 

Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim 

Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again; 

And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 

Thine individual being, shalt thou go 

To mix forever with the elements; 

To be a brother to the insensible rock, 

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 

Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 

Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold. 

Yet not to thine eternal resting place 

Shalt thou retire alone — nor couldst thou wish 

Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 

With patriarchs of the infant world — ^with kings. 

The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good. 



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Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 

All in one mighty sepulcher. The hills, 

Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun; the vales 

Stretching in pensive quietness between; 

The venerable woods; rivers that move 

In majesty, and the complaining brooks, 

That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, 

Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste — 

Are but the solemn decorations all 

Of the great tomb of man! The golden sun, 

The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 

Are shining on the sad abodes of death, 

Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 

The globe are but a handful to the tribes 

That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings 

Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness. 

Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 

Where rolls the Oregon and hears no sound 

Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there; 

And millions in those solitudes, since first 

The flight of years began, have laid them down 

In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone! 

So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw 

In silence from the living; and no friend 

Take note of thy departure.? All that breathe 

Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 

When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 

Plod on, and each one as before shall chase 

His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave 

Their mirth and their employments, and shall come 

And make their bed with thee. As the long train 

Of ages glides away, the sons of men — 

The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes 

In the full strength of years, matron and mai-d. 

And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man — 

Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, 

By those, who in their turn shall follow them. 

So live that when thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan that moves 
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death. 
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night. 
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 



By special permission of 
D. Appleton 4 Company. 



Page Ninety-three 



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The Children's Hour 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 
/"Born February 27, 1807; Died March 24, 1882) 



Between the dark and the daylight, 
When the light is beginning to lower, 

Comes a pause in the day's occupations 
That is known as the Children's Hour. 

I hear in the chamber above me 

The patter of little feet. 
The sound of a door that is opened, 

And voices soft and sweet. 

From my study I see in the lamplight, 
Descending the broad hall stair,. 

Grave Alice and laughing Allegra, 
And Edith with golden hair. 

A whisper, and then a silence; 

Yet I know by their merry eyes, 
They are plotting and planning together 

To take me by surprise. 

A sudden rush from the stairway, 
A sudden raid from the hall! 

By three doors left unguarded 
They enter my castle wall! 

They climb up into my turret. 

O'er the arms and back of my chair; 

If I try to escape, they surround me; 
They seem to be everywhere. 

They almost devour me with kisses, 
Their arms about me entwine, 

Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen 
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine. 



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Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, 
Because you have scaled the wall, 

Such an old mustache as I am 
Is not a match for you all? 

I have you fast in my fortress. 
And will not let you depart. 

But put you down into the dungeon 
In the round-tower of my heart. 

And there will I keep you forever, 

Yes, forever and a day. 
Till the wall shall crumble to ruin, 

And moulder in dust away. 




Invictus 



William Ernest Henley 
(^Born August 23, 1849; Died July 12, 1903 J 



Out of the night that covers me. 
Black as the Pit from pole to pole, 

I thank whatever gods may be 
For my unconquerable soul. 

In the fell clutch of circumstance 
I have not winced nor cried aloud. 

Under the bludgeonings of chance 
My head is bloody, but unbowed. 

Beyond this place of wrath and tears 
Looms but the horror of the shade. 

And yet the menace of the years 
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid. 

It matters not how strait the gate, 

How charged with punishments the scroll, 

I am the master of my fate; 
I am the captain of my soul. 



Page Ninety-five 



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The Owl and the 
Pussy-Cat 

Edward Lear 
(Born May 12, 1812; Died January 30, 1888) 



From ' 'Book of Limericks by Edward Lear' 
1888 Little, Brown & Company 



The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea 

In a beautiful pea-green boat. 
They took some honey and plenty of money 

Wrapped up in a five-pound note. 
The Owl looked up to the stars above, 

And sang to a small guitar, 
''O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love! 

What a beautiful Pussy you are, — 
You are; 
, What a beautiful Pussy you are!" 

Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl, 

How charmingly sweet you sing! 
Oh, let us be married, — ^too long we have tarried,- 

But what shall we do for a ring.?" 
They sailed away for a year and a day, 

To the land where the bong-tree grows; 
And there, in a wood, a Piggy- wig stood, — 

With a ring at the end of his nose, 
His nose; 

With a ring at the end of his nose. 

''Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling 

Your ring.?" Said the Piggy, "I will." 
So they took it away, and were married next day 

By the Turkey who lives on the hill. 
They dined upon mince and slices of quince. 

Which they ate with a runcible spoon; 
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand. 

They danced by the light of the moon, — 
The moon; 

They danced by the light of the moon. 



Page Ninety-six 



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Horatius 



Thomas Babington Macaulay 

(Born October 25, 1800; Died December 28, 1859) 



Lars Porsena of Clusium, 

By the nine gods he swore 
That the great house of Tarquin 

Should suffer wrong no more. 
By the nine gods he swore it, 

And named a trysting day, 
And bade his messengers ride forth, 
East and west and south and north, 

To summon his array. 

East and west and south and north 

The messengers ride fast, 
And tower and town and cottage 

Have heard the trumpet's blast. 
The horsemen and the footmen 

Are pouring in amain 
From many a stately market-place, 

From many a fruitful plain; 

* * * * 
And now hath every city 

Sent up her tale of men; 
The foot are fourscore thousand 

The horse are thousands ten. 
Before the gates of Sutrium 

Is met the great array, 
A proud man was Lars Porsena 

Upon the trysting day. 

* * * * 

But by the yellow Tiber 

Was tumult and affright: 
From all the spacious champagne 

To Rome men took their flight. 
A mile around the city. 

The throng stopped up the ways: 
A fearful sight it was to see 

Through two long nights and dayc 



Page Ninety-seven 



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Now, from the rock Tarpeian, 

Could the wan burghers spy 
The Hne of blazing villages 

Red in the midnight sky. 
The Fathers of the City, 

They sat all night and day 
For every hour some horseman came 

With tidings of dismay. 

* * * * 

They held a council standing 

Before the river-gate; 
Short time was there, ye well may guess, 

For musing or debate. 
Outspake the Consul roundly: 

''The bridge must straight go down; 
For since Janiculum is lost 

Naught else can save the town." 

Just then a scout came flying. 

All wild with haste and fear: 
"To arms! to arms! Sir Consul; 

Lars Porsena is here." 
On the low hills to westward 

The Consul fixed his eye. 
And saw the swarthy storm of dust 

Rise fast along the sky. 

And nearer, fast and nearer. 

Doth the red whirlwind come; 
And louder still and still more loud. 
From underneath that rolling cloud. 
Is heard the trumpet's war-note proud, 

The trampling and the hum. 
And plainly and more plainly 

Now through the gloom appears. 
Far to left and far to right. 
In broken gleams of dark-blue light. 
The long array of helmets bright. 

The long array of spears. 

* * * * 

But the Consul's brow was sad. 

And the Consul's speech was low, 
And darkly looked he at the wall. 

And darkly at the foe: 
''Their van will be upon us 

Before the bridge goes down; 
And if they once may win the bridge 

What hope to save the town?" 



Page Ninety-eight 



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Then outspake brave Horatius, 

The captain of the gate: 
"To every man upon this earth 

Death cometh soon or late. 
And how can man die better 

Than facing fearful odds 
For the ashes of his fathers 

And the temples of his gods? 

"Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, 

With all the speed ye may; 
I, with two more to help me, 

Will hold the foe in play, — 
In yon strait path a thousand 

May well be stopped by three. 

Now who will stand on either hand, 

. And keep the bridge with me?" 

Then outspake Spurius Lartius, — 

A Ramnian proud was he: 
"Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, 

And keep the bridge with thee." 
And outspake strong Herminius, — 

Of Titian blood was he: 
"I will abide on thy left side. 

And keep the bridge with thee." 

"Horatius," quoth the Consul, 

"As thou sayest, so let it be." 
And straight against that great array. 

Forth went the dauntless Three. 
Now, while the Three were tightening 

Their harness on their backs. 
The Consul was the foremost man 

To take in hand an axe; 
And Fathers mixed with Commons 

Seized hatchet, bar, and crow. 
And smote upon the planks above. 

And loosed the props below. 

* * * * 

Meanwhile the Tuscan army. 

Right glorious to behold. 
Came flashing back the noonday light. 
Rank behind rank, like surges bright 

Of a broad sea of gold. 
Four hundred trumpets sounded 

A peal of warlike glee. 
As that great host, with measured tread, 



Page Ninety- nine 



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And ensigns spread, 

Rolled slowly towards the bridge's head, 
Where stood the dauntless Three. 

The three stood calm and silent. 

And looked upon the foes, 
And a great shout of laughter 

From all the vanguard rose; 
And forth three chiefs came spurring 

Before that mighty mass; 
To earth they sprang, their swords they drew. 
And lifted high their shields, and flew 

To win the narrow pass. 

Aunus, from green Tifernum, 

Lord of the hill of vines; 
And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves 

Sicken in Ilva's mines; 
And Picus, long to Clusium 

Vassal in peace and war. 

Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus 

Into the stream beneath; 
Herminius struck at Seius, 

And clove him to the teeth; 
At Picus brave Horatius 

Darted one fiery thrust. 
And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms 

Clashed in the bloody dust. 



But now no sound of laughter 

Was heard amongst the foes. 
A wild and wrathful clamor 

From all the vanguard rose. 
Six spears' lengths from the entrance 

Halted that mighty mass. 
And for a space no man came forth 

To win the narrow pass. 

But, hark! the cry is Astur: 

And lo! the ranks divide; 
And the great lord of Luna 

Comes with his stately stride. 
Upon his ample shoulders 

Clangs loud the fourfold shield. 
And in his hand he shakes the brand 

Which none but he can wield. 



Page One Hundred 



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He smiled on those bold Romans, 

A smile serene and high; 
He eyed the flinching Tuscans, 

And scorn was in his eye. 
Quoth he, *'The she-wolf's litter 

Stand savagely at bay; 
But will ye dare to follow, 

If Astur clears the way?" 

Then, whirling up his broadsword 

With both hands to the height. 
He rushed against Horatius, 

And smote with all his might. 
With shield and blade Horatius 

Right deftly turned the blow. 
The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh; 
It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh. 
The Tuscans raised a joyful cry 

To see the red blood flow. 

He reeled, and on Herminius 

He leaned one breathing-space. 
Then, like a wild-cat mad with wounds, 

Sprang right at Astur's face. 
Through teeth and skull and helmet 

So fierce a thrust he sped. 
The good sword stood a handbreadth out 

Behind the Tuscan's head. 

And the great lord of Luna 

Fell at that deadly stroke, 
As falls on Mount Avernus 

A thunder-smitten oak. 
Far o'er the crashing forest 

The giant arms lie spread; 
And the pale augurs, muttering low, 

Gaze on the blasted head. 

On Astur's throat Horatius 

Right firmly pressed his heel. 
And thrice and four times tugged amain. 

Ere he wrenched out the steel. 
"And see," he cried, ''the welcome, 

Fair guests, that waits you here! 
What noble Lucumo comes next 

To taste our Roman cheer .f"' 



Page One Hundred and One 



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But meanwhile axe and lever 

Have manfully been plied, 
And now the bridge hangs tottering 

Above the boiling tide. 
"Come back, come back, Horatius!" 

Loud cried the Fathers all; 
"Back, Lartius! back, Herminius! 

Back, ere the ruin fall!" 

Back darted Spurius Lartius; 

Herminius darted back; 
And, as they passed, beneath their feet 

They felt the timbers crack; 
But when they turned their faces. 

And on the further shore 
Saw brave Horatius stand alone. 

They would have crossed once more. 

But, with a crash like thunder. 

Fell every loosened beam. 
And, like a dam, the mighty wreck 

Lay right athwart the stream; 
And a long shout of triumph 

Rose from the walls of Rome. 
As to the highest turret-tops 

Was splashed the yellow foam. 

■X- * ^ * 

Alone stood brave Horatius, 

But constant still in mind, — 
Thrice thirty thousand foes before. 

And the broad flood behind. 
"Down with him!" cried false Sextus, 

With a smile on his pale face; 
"Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena, 

"Now yield thee to our grace!" 

Round turned he, as not deigning 

Those craven ranks to see; 
Naught spake he to Lars Porsena, 

To Sextus naught spake he; 
But he saw on Palatinus 

The white porch of his home; 
And he spake to the noble river 

That rolls by the towers of Rome: 

"O Tiber! Father Tiber! 

To whom the Romans pray 
A Roman's life, a Roman's arms. 

Take thou in charge this day!" 

Pas-e One Hundred and Two 



®nt '^nnitx^it unit ^nt^Ktnixn^ ^xt^tns 



So he spake, and, speaking, sheathed 
The good sword by his side. 

And, with his harness on his back, 
Plunged headlong in the tide. 

No sound of joy or sorrow 

Was heard from either bank. 
But friends and foes in dumb surprise, 
With parted lips and straining eyes, 

Stood gazing where he sank; 
And when'above the surges 

They saw his crest appear. 
All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, 
And even the ranks of Tuscany 

Could scarce forbear to cheer. 

But fiercely ran the current. 

Swollen high by months of rain, 
And fast his blood was flowing; 

And he was sore in pain. 
And heavy with his armor. 

And spent with changing blows; 
And oft they thought him sinking. 

But still again he rose. 



And now he feels the bottom; — 

Now on dry earth he stands; 
Now round him throng the Fathers 

To press his gory hands. 
And, now, with shouts and clapping. 

And noise of weeping loud. 
He enters through the River Gate, 

Borne by the joyous crowd. 



Paare One Hundred and Three 



^nt ^nnitTieit unit ®n^ ^umxtxtsi '^u^ttts 




She Walks in Beauty 

George Gordon Byron 

(Sixth Lord) 

fBorn January 22, 1788; Died April 19, 1824 J 



She walks in beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies, 

And all that's best of dark and bright 
Meet in her aspect and her eyes. 

Thus mellow'd to that tender light 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less 
Had half impaired the nameless grace 

Which waves in every raven tress. 
Or softly lightens o'er her face, 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent. 
The smiles that win, the tints that glow 

But tell of days in goodness spent — 
A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent. 




Page One Hundred and Four 



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The Eternal Goodness 

John Greenleaf Whittier 
fBorn December 17,1807; Died September 7,1892 J 



friends! with whom my feet have trod 
The quiet aisles of prayer, 

Glad witness to your zeal for God 
And love of man I bear. 

1 trace your lines of argument; 
Your logic linked and strong 

I weigh as one who dreads dissent, 
And fears a doubt as wrong. 

But still my human hands are weak 

To hold your iron creeds: 
Against the words ye bid me speak 

My heart within me pleads. 

Who fathoms the Eternal Thought.^ 
Who talks of scheme and plan.? 

The Lord is God! He needeth not 
The poor device of man. 

I walk with bare, hushed feet the ground 
Ye tread with boldness shod; 

I dare not fix with mete and bound 
The love and power of God. 

Ye praise His justice; even such 

His pitying love I deem: 
Ye seek a king; I fain would touch 

The robe that hath no seam. 

Ye see the curse which overbroods 

A world of pain and loss; 
I hear our Lord's beatitudes 

And prayer upon the cross. 



Page One Hundred and Five 



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More than your schoolmen teach, within 

Myself, alas! I know: 
Too dark ye cannot paint the sin, 

Too small the merit show. 

I bow my forehead to the dust, 

I veil mine eyes for shame. 
And urge, in trembling self-distrust, 

A prayer without a claim. 

I see the wrong that round me lies, 

I feel the guilt within; 
I hear, with groan and travail-cries, 

The world confess its sin. 

Yet, in the maddening maze of things. 
And tossed by storm and flood. 

To one fixed trust my spirit clings; 
I know that God is good! 

Not mine to look where cherubim 

And seraphs may not see, 
But nothing can be good in Him 

Which evil is in me. 

The wrong that pains my soul below 

I dare not throne above, 
I know not of His hate, — I know 

His goodness and His love. 

I dimly guess from blessings known 

Of greater out of sight. 
And, with the chastened Psalmist, own 

His judgments too are right. 

I long for household voices gone. 

For vanished smiles I long, 
But God hath led my dear ones on. 

And He can do no wrong. 

I know not what the future hath 

Of marvel or surprise. 
Assured alone that life and death 

His mercy underlies. 

And if my heart and flesh are weak 

To bear an untried pain. 
The bruised reed He will not break, 

But strengthen and sustain. 



Pasre One Hundred and Six 



®n^ '^nnitt^it unit (^n^^^tcmttns l^ixtms 



No offering of my own I have, 
Nor works my faith to prove; 

I can but give the gifts He gave, 
And plead His love for love. 

And so beside the Silent Sea 

I wait the muffled oar; 
No harm from Him can come to me 

On ocean or on shore. 

I knew not where His islands lift 
Their fronded palms in air; 

I only know I cannot drift 
Beyond His love and care. 

O brothers! if my faith is vain, 

If hopes like these betray. 
Pray for me that my feet may gain 

The sure and safer way. 

And Thou, O Lord! by whom are seen 

Thy creatures as they be. 
Forgive me if too close I lean 

My human heart on Thee! 




Perseverance 

JoHANN Wolfgang von Goethe 

(Bern August 28, 1749; Died March 22, 1832) 



We must not hope to be mowers. 
And to gather the ripe gold ears, 

Unless we have first been sowers 

And watered the furrows with tears. 

It is not just as we take it, 
This mystical world of ours, 

Life's field will yield as we make it 
A harvest of thorns or of flowers. 



Page One Hundred and Seven 



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If 



RuDYARD Kipling 

Born December 30^ 1865-^ ) 



If you can keep your head when all about you 

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; 
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, 

But make allowance for their doubting too: 
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, 

Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies. 
Or being hated don't give way to hating. 

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise; 

If you can dream — and not make dreams your master; 

If you can think — and not make thoughts your aim. 
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster 

And treat those two impostors just the same: 
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken 

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools. 
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken. 

And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools; 

If you can make one heap of all your winnings 

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss. 
And lose, and start again at your beginnings. 

And never breathe a word about your loss: 
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew 

To serve your turn long after they are gone, 
And so hold on when there is nothing in you 

Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!" 

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, 

Or walk with Kings — nor lose the common touch. 
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, 

If all men count with you, but none too much: 
If you can fill the unforgiving minute 

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run. 
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it. 

And — which is more — you'll be a Man, my son! 



Page One Hundred and Eight 



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The Day is Done 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 
("Born February 27, 1807; Died March 24, 1882) 



The day is done, and the darkness 
Falls from the wings of Night, 

As a feather is wafted downward 
From an eagle in his flight. 

I see the lights of the village 

Gleam through the rain and the mist. 
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me 

That my soul cannot resist: 

A feeling of sadness and longing, 

That is not akin to pain, 
And resembles sorrow only 

As the mist resembles the rain. 

Come, read to me some poem. 
Some simple and heartfelt lay, 

That shall soothe this restless feeling, 
And banish the thoughts of day. 

Not from the grand old masters. 
Not from the bards sublime, 

Whose distant footsteps echo 
Through the corridors of Time. 

• 

For, like strains of martial music. 
Their mighty thoughts suggest 

Life's endless toil and endeavor; 
And tonight I long for rest. 

Read from some humbler poet. 

Whose songs gushed from his heart. 

As showers from the clouds of summer, 
Or tears from the eyelids start; 



P a e: e One Hundred and Nine 



)tit ^nnitx^it unit ®tt^ ^zcmvtns ^jx^ttts 



Who, through long days of labor, 

And nights devoid of ease, 
Still heard in his soul the music 

Of wonderful melodies. 

Such songs have power to quiet 

The restless pulse of care. 
And come like the benediction 

That follows after prayer. 

Then read from the treasured volume 

The poem of thy choice, 
And lend to the rhyme of the poet 

The beauty of thy voice. 

And the night shall be filled with music 
And the cares, that infest the day. 

Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, 
And as silently steal away. 



I Love of Country 

[From "The Lay of the Last Minstrel" 

Sir Walter Scott 
(Born August 15, 1771; Died September 21, 1832) 



Breathes there the man with soul so dead 
Who never to himself hath said: 

"This is my own, my native land.?" 
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned 
As home his footsteps he hath turned, 

From wandering on a foreign strand ? 
If such there breathe, go mark him well; 
For him no minstrel raptures swell;" 
High though his titles, proud his name. 
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, 
Despite those titles, power and pelf. 
The wretch concentred all in self, 
Living, shall forfeit fair renown. 
And, doubly dying, shall go down 
To the vile dust from whence he sprung, 
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. 

Page One Hundred and Ten 



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Nobility 

Alice Gary 
(Born April 26, 1820; Died February 12, 1871) 



True worth is in being, not seeming, — 

In doing, each day that goes by, 
Some little good — not in dreaming 

Of great things to do by and by. 
For whatever men say in their blindness, 

And spite of the fancies of youth. 
There's nothing so kingly as kindness, 

And nothing so royal as truth. 

We get back our mete as we measure — 

We cannot do wrong and feel right, 
Nor can we give pain and gain pleasure. 

For justice avenges each slight. 
The air for the wing of the sparrow, 

The bush for the robin and wren. 
But alway the path that is narrow 

And straight, for the children of men. 

'Tis not in the pages of story 

The heart of its ills to beguile, 
Though he who makes courtship to glory 

Gives all that he hath for her smile. 
For when from her heights he has won her, 

Alas! it is only to prove 
That nothing's so sacred as honor. 

And nothing so loyal as love! 

We cannot make bargains for blisses. 

Nor catch them like fishes in nets; 
And sometimes the thing our life misses 

Helps more than the thing which it gets. 
For good lieth not in pursuing. 

Nor gaining of great nor of small. 
But just in the doing, and doing 

As we would be done by, is all. 



Page One Hundred and Eleven 



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Through envy, through malice, through hating, 

Against the world, early and late. 
No jot of our courage abating — 

Our part is to work and to wait. 
And slight is the sting of his trouble 

Whose winnings are less than his worth; 
For he who is honest is noble, 

Whatever his fortunes or birth. 




The Minuet 

Mary Mapes Dodge 
f'Born Janary 26, 1838; Died August 21, 1905 J 



Grandma told me all about it, 

Told me so I couldn't doubt it, 

How she danced, my grandma danced; long ago — 

How she held her pretty head. 

How her dainty skirt she spread, 

How she slowly leaned and rose — long ago. 

Grandma's hair was bright and sunny, 
Dimpled cheeks, too, oh, how funny! 
Really quite a pretty girl — long ago. 
Bless her! why, she wears a cap. 
Grandma does, and takes a nap 
Every single day: and yet 
Grandma danced the minuet — long ago. 

'* Modern ways are quite alarming," 

Grandma says, "but boys were charming" 

(Girls and boys she means, of course) "long ago." 

Brave but modest, grandly shy; 

She would like to have us try 

Just to feel like those who met 

In the graceful minuet — long ago. 

From "Along the Way." Copyrigrht 1879. 
Published by Charles Scribner's Sons. 



Page One Hundred and Twelve 



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Childe Harold's Farewell 
to England 

George Gordon Byron 

(Sixlh Lord) 

fBorji January 22, 1788; Died April 19, 1824 J 



Adieu, adieu! my native shore 

Fades o'er the waters blue; 
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, 

And shrieks the wild sea-mew. 
Yon sun that sets upon the sea. 

We follow in his flight; 
Farewell awhile to him and thee. 

My native land — Good-night. 

A few short hours and he will rise 

To give the morrow birth; 
And I shall hail the main and skies. 

But not my mother earth. 
Deserted is my own good hall, 

Its hearth is desolate; 
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall; 

My dog howls at the gate. 

Come hither, hither, my little page! 

Why dost thou weep and wail.f* 
Or dost thou dread the billow's rage. 

Or tremble at the gale.r* 
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye; 

Our ship is swift and strong; 
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly 

More merrily along. 

"Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, 

I fear not wave nor wind: 
Yet marvel not. Sir Childe, that I 

Am sorrowful in mind; 
For I have from my father gone, 

A mother whom I love. 
And have no friends, save these alone, 

But thee — and One above. 



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"My father blessed me fervently, 

Yet did not much complain; 
But sorely will my mother sigh 

Till I come back again." — 
Enough, enough, my little lad! 

Such tears become thine eye; 
If I thy guileless bosom had, 

Mine own would not be dry. 




God Save the Flag 

Oliver Wendell Holmes 
("Born August 29, 1809; Died October 7, 1894) 



Washed in the blood of the brave and the blooming, 
Snatched from the altars of insolent foes, 

Burning with star-fires, but never consuming. 
Flash its broad ribbons of lily and rose. 

Vainly the prophets of Baal would rend it, 
Vainly his worshippers pray for its fall; 

Thousands have died for it, millions defend it. 
Emblem of justice and mercy to all: 

Justice that reddens the sky with her terrors, 
Mercy that comes with her white-handed train. 

Soothing all passions, redeeming all errors. 
Sheathing the sabre and breaking the chain. 

Borne on the deluge of old usurpations. 
Drifted our Ark o'er the desolate seas. 

Bearing the rainbow of hope to the nations. 

Torn from the storm-cloud and flung to the breeze! 

God bless the Flag and its loyal defenders. 

While its broad folds o'er the battle-field wave, 

Till the dim star-wreath rekindle its splendors, 
Washed from its stains in the blood of the brave! 



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The Raven 



Edgar Allan Poe 
fBorn January 19, 1809; Died October 7, 1849} 



Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and 
weary, 
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten 
lore, 
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came 
a tapping. 
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my 

chamber door. 
" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, '* tapping at my 
chamber door; 

Only this, and nothing more." 

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, 

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon 

the floor. 

Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to 

borrow 

From my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost 

Lenore, 
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name 
Lenore, 

Nameless here forevermore. 

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple 
curtain 
Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt 
before; 
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood 
repeating, 
" 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber 

door. 
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber 
door; 

This it is, and nothing more." 



Page One Hundred and Fifteen 



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Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, 

"Sir," said I, "or madam, truly your forgiveness I 

implore; 

But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came 

rapping. 

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my 

chamber door. 
That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I opened 
wide the door; — 

Darkness there, and nothing more. 

Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, won- 
dering, fearing. 
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to 
dream before; 
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no 
token, 
And the only word there spoken was the whispered 

word, "Lenore.f"' 
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, 
"Lenore!" 

Merely this, and nothing more. 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me 
burning. 
Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than 
before, 
"Surely," said I, "surely, that is something at my win- 
dow lattice; 
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery 

explore; 
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery 
explore; 

'Tis the wind, and nothing more." 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt 
and flutter. 
In there stepped a stately raven, of the saintly days of 
yore. 
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or 
stayed he; 
But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my 

chamber door; 
Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber 

' Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, 
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it 
wore. 



Page One Hundred and Sixteen 



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"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, 
"art sure no craven, 
Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the 

nightly shore. 
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plu- 
tonian shore." 

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." 

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse 

so plainly. 

Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore; 

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being 

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber 

door. 
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his cham- 
ber door, 

With such name as "Nevermore." 

But the raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke 
only 
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did 
outpour. 
Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he 
fluttered; 
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends 

have flown before; 
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have 
flown before." 

Then the bird said, "Nevermore." 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, 

"Doubtless," said I, "what it matters is its only stock 

and store. 

Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful 

disaster 

Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one 

burden bore, — 
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden 
bore 

Of "Never — nevermore." 

But the raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, 

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and 

bust and door; 

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking 

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of 

yore. 



Page One Hundred and Seventeen 



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What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous 
bird of yore 

Meant in croaking, ** Nevermore." 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing 

To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my 

bosom's core; 

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining 

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated 

o'er. 
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight 
gloating o'er 

She shall press, ah, neverniore! 

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an 
unseen censer 
Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the 
tufted floor. 
** Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee — by these 
angels he hath sent thee 
Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories of 

Lenore ! 
QuafF, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost 
Lenore!" 

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!" 

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird 
or devil! 
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee 
here ashore. 
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land en- 
chanted, — 
On this home by horror haunted — tell me truly, I 

implore: 
Is there — is there balm in Gilead.? — tell me — tell mc 
I implore!" 

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." 

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil — prophet still, if bird 
or devil! 
By that heaven that bends above us — by that God we 
both adore — 
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant 
Aidenn, 
It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name 

Lenore — 
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angers 
name Lenore.?" 

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." 



Page One Hundred and Eighteen 



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"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I 
shrieked, upstarting — 
'*Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plu- 
tonian shore! 
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath 
spoken! 
Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit the bust above 

my door! 
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form 
from off my door!" 

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." 

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting 

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; 

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is 

dreaming; 

And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws the 

shadow on the floor; 
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating 
on the floor 

Shall be lifted — nevermore! 




When in Disgrace 

William Shakespeare 
/"Born April 23 (?), 1564; Died April 23, 1616 J 



When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, 

I all alone beweep my outcast state, 

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, 

And look upon myself and curse my fate. 

Wishing me like to one more rich in hope. 

Featured like him, like him with friends possessed. 

Desiring this man's art and that man's scope, 

With what I most enjoy contented least; 

Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising. 

Haply I think on thee — and then my state 

(Like to the lark at break of day arising 

From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate; 

For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings, 
That then I scorn to change my state with kings. 



Page One Hundred and Nineteen 



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Gradatim 



JosiAH Gilbert Holland 
(Born July 24, 1819; Died October 12, 1881) 



Heaven is not gained at a single bound; 
But we build the ladder by which we rise 
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, 

And we mount to its summit round by round. 

I count this thing to be grandly true, 

That a noble deed is a step toward God — 
Lifting the soul from the common sod 

To a purer air and a broader view. 

We rise by things that are 'neath our feet; 

By what we have mastered of good and gain; 

By the pride deposed and the passion slain, 
And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet. 

We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust. 
When the morning calls us to life and light, 
But our hearts grow weary, and, ere the night, 

Our lives are trailing the sordid dust. 

We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray, 

And we think that we mount the air on wings 
Beyond the recall of sensual things, 

While our feet still cling to the heavy clay. 

Wings for the angels, but feet for men! 

We may borrow the wings to find the way — 
We may hope, and resolve, and aspire, and pray, 

But our feet must rise, or we fall again. 

Only in dreams is a ladder thrown 

From the weary earth to the sapphire walls; 
But the dream departs, and the vision falls, 

And the sleeper wakes on his pillow of stone. 

Heaven is not reached at a single bound: 
But we build the ladder by which we rise 
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies. 

And we mount to its summit round by round. 

From "Complete Poetical Writings" 
of J. G. Holland. CopyriKht 1885, 
Published by Charles Scribner's Sons. 

Page One Hundred and Twenty 



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For A' That and A' That 

Robert Burns 

("Born January 25, 1759; Died July 21, 1796 J 



Is there for honest poverty 
That hings his head, and a' that? 
The coward slave, we pass him by; 
We dare be poor for a' that! 
For a' that, and a* that, 
Our toils obscthre, and a' that; 
The rank is but the guinea stamp — 
The man's the gowd for a' that! 

What tho' on hamely fare we dine, 

Wear hodden gray, and a' that? 

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine — 

A man's a man for a' that! 

For a' that, and a' that, 

Their tinsel show, and a* that; 

The honest man, though e'er sae poor, 

Is king o' men, for a' that! 

Ye see yon birkie ca'd a lord, 
Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that — 
Tho' hundreds worship at his word, 
He's but a coof for a' that; 
For a' that, and a' that. 
His riband, star, and a' that; 
The man of independent mind, 
He looks an' laughs at a' that. 

A prince can mak a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, and a' that; 

But an honest man's aboon his might — 

Gude faith, he mauna fa' that! 

For a' that, and a' that. 

Their dignities, an' a' that; 

The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth. 

Are higher rank than a' that. 

Page One Hundred and T w e n t y - O n e 



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Then let us pray that come it may, — 

As come it will for a' that, — 

That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, 

May bear the gree, an' a' that. 

For a' that, and a' that, 

It's comin' yet, for a' that — 

That man to man, the warld o'er, 

Shall brithers be for a' that. 




Jest Tore Christmas 

Eugene Field 
("Born September 3, 1850 ^ Died November 4, 1895 J 



Father calls me William, sister calls me Will, 

Mother calls me Willie, but the fellers call me Bill! 

Mighty glad I ain't a girl — ruther be a boy, 

Without them sashes, curls, an' things that's worn by 

Fauntleroy! 
Love to chawnk green apples an' go swimmin' in the 

lake — 
Hate to take the castor-ile they give for belly-ache! 
'Most all the time, the whole year round, there ain't no 

flies on me. 
But jest 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be! 

Got a yeller dog named Sport, sick him on the cat; 
First thing she knows she doesn't know where she is at! 
Got a clipper sled, an' when us kids goes out to slide, 
'Long comes the grocery cart, an' we all hook a ride! 
But sometimes when the grocery man is worrited an' 

cross. 
He reaches at us with his whip, an' larrups up his boss, 
An' then I laff an' holler, "Oh, ye never teched me!'' 
But jest 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be! 



Page One Hundred and Twenty-Two 



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Gran'ma says she hopes that when I git to be a man, 
I'll be a missionarer like her oldest brother, Dan, 
As was et up by the cannibuls that live in Ceylon's Isle, 
Where every prospeck pleases, an' only man is vile! 
But gran'ma she has never been to see a Wild West show, 
Nor read the life of Daniel Boone, or else I guess she'd 

know 
That BufF'lo Bill an* cowboys is good enough for me! 
Except jest 'fore Christmas, when I'm as good as I kin be! 

And then old Sport he hangs around, so solemn-like an' 

still. 
His eyes they seem a-sayin': "What's the matter, little 

Bill?" 
The old cat sneaks down off her perch an' wonders what's 

become 
Of them two enemies of hern that used to make things 

hum! 
But I am so perlite an' tend so earnestly to biz. 
That mother says to father: '*How improved our Willie 

is!" 
But father, havin' been a boy hisself, suspicions me 
When, jest 'fore Christmas, I'm as good as I kin be! 

For Christmas, with its lots an' lots of candies, cakes, an' 

toys, 
Was made, they say, for proper kids an' not for naughty 

boys; 
So wash yer face an' bresh yer hair, an' mind yer p's and 

q's. 
And don't bust out yer pantaloons, and don't wear out 

yer shoes; 
Say **Yessum" to the ladies, and "Yessur" to the men. 
An' when they's company, don't pass yer plate for pie 

again; 
But, thinkin' of the things yer'd like to see upon that 

tree. 
Jest 'fore Christmas be as good as yer kin be! 

From "The Poems of Eugene Field." 
1911. Published by Charles Scribner's Sons. 



Page One Hundred and Twenty-Three 



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A Psalm of Life 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

(Born February 27, 1807; Died March 24, 1882) 



Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 
Life is but an empty dream! — 

For the soul is dead that slumbers, 
And things are not what they seem. 

Life is real! Life is earnest! 

And the grave is not its goal; 
Dust thou art, to dust returnest. 

Was not spoken of the soul. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

Is our destined end or way; 
But to act, that each to-morrow 

Find us farther than to-day. 

Art is long, and Time is fleeting. 

And our hearts, though stout and brave. 

Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 

In the world's broad field of battle. 

In the bivouac of Life, 
Be not like dumb, driven cattle! 

Be a hero in the strife! 

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! 

Let the dead Past bury its dead! 
Act, — act in the living Present! 

Heart within, and God o'erhead! 

Lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sublime. 

And, departing, leave behind us 
Footprints on the sands of time; 



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Footprints, that perhaps another, 
Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 
Seeing, shall take heart again. 

Let us then be up and doing. 
With a heart for any fate; 

Still achieving, still pursuing, 
Learn to labor. and to wait. 



Sir Patrick Spens 

This ballad is a confused echo of the Scotch expedition which should have brousrht 
the Maid of Norway to Scotland, about 1285. 

The king sits in Dumfermline town, 
Drinking the blude-red wine; 

"O whare will I get a skeely skipper. 
To sail this new ship of mine.?" 

O up and spake an eldern knight, 
Sat at the king's right knee, — 

''Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor 
That ever sailed the sea." 

Our king has written a braid letter, 
And seal'd it with his hand. 

And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, 
Was walking on the strand. 

"To Noroway, to Noroway, 

To Noroway o'er the faem; 
The king's daughter of Noroway 

'Tis thou maun bring her hame." 

The first word that Sir Patrick read, 

Sae loud, loud laughed he; 
The neist word that Sir Patrick read. 

The tear blinded his e'e. 

"O wha is this has done this deed. 

And tauld the king o' me. 
To send us out, at this time of the year, 

To sail upon the sea.^* 



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"Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, 

Our ship must sail the faem; 
The king's daughter of Noroway, 

'Tis we must fetch her hame." 

They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn, 

Wi' a' the speed they may; 
They hae landed in Noroway, 

Upon a Wodensday. 

They hadna been a week, a week 

In Noroway but twae, 
When that the lords o' Noroway 

Began aloud to say, — 

'*Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's goud. 

And a' our queenis fee." 
"Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud! 

Fu' loud I hear ye lie. 

"For I brought as much white monie 

As gane my men and me, 
And I brought a half-fou o' gude red goud 

Out o'er the sea wi' me. 

"Make ready, make ready, my merrymen a'! 

Our gude ship sails the morn." 
"Now, ever alake, my master dear, 

I fear a deadly storm! 

"I saw the new moon, late yestreen, 

Wi' the auld moon in her arm; 
And if we gang to sea, master, 

I fear we'll come to harm." 

They hadna sailed a league, a league, 

A league but barely three, 
When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, 

And gurly grew the sea. 

The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap, 

It was sic a deadly storm; 
And the waves came o'er the broken ship. 

Till a' her sides were torn. 

"O where will I get a gude sailor, 

To take my helm in hand. 
Till I get up to the tall top-mast, j 

To see if I can spy land.?" i 



Page One Hundred and Twenty-S 



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'*0 here am I, a sailor gude, 

To take the helm in hand, 
Till you go up to the tall top-mast; 

But I fear you'll ne'er spy land." 

He hadna gane a step, a step, 

A step but barely ane. 
When a bout flew out of our goodly ship, 

And the salt sea it came in. 

''Gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith, 

Another o' the twine. 
And wrap them into our ship's side, 

And letna the sea come in." 

They fetched a web o' the silken claith. 

Another of the twine, 
And they wrapped them roun' that gude ship's side, 

But still the sea came in. 

O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords 

To weet their cork-heel'd shoon! 
But lang or a' the play was play'd. 

They wat their hats aboon. 

And mony was the feather-bed 

That fluttered on the faem; 
And mony was the gude lord's son 

That never mair cam home. 

The ladyes wrang their fingers white, 

The maidens tore their hair, 
A' for the sake of their true loves; 

For them they'll see na mair. 

O lang, lang, may the ladyes sit, 

Wi' their fans into their hand, 
Before they see Sir Patrick Spens 

Come sailing to the strand! 

And lang, lang may the maidens sit, 

Wi' their goud kaims in their hair, 
A' waiting for their own dear loves! 

For them they'll see na mair, 

O forty miles oflF Aberdeen 

'Tis fifty fathoms deep. 
And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, 

Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. 



Page One Hundred and Twenty-Seven 



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i 



The Barefoot Boy 

John Greenleaf Whittier 
("Born December 17, 1807; Died September 7, 1892) 



Blessings on thee, little man, 
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan! 
With thy turned-up pantaloons. 
And thy merry whistled tunes; 
With thy red lip, redder still, 
Kissed by strawberries on the hill; 
With the sunshine on thy face. 
Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace, 
From my heart I give thee joy, — 
I was once a barefoot boy. 
Prince thou art, — the grown-up man 
Only is republican. 
Let the million-dollared ride! 
Barefoot, trudging at his side. 
Thou hast more than he can buy, 
In the reach of ear and eye- 
Outward sunshine, inward joy; 
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy! 

Oh, for boyhood's painless play. 
Sleep that wakes in laughing day, 
Health that mocks the doctor's rules, 
Knowledge never learned of schools, 
Of the wild bee's morning chase, 
Of the wild flower's time and place, 
Flight of fowl and habitude 
Of the tenants of the wood; 
How the tortoise bears his shell. 
How the woodchuck digs his cell, 
And the groundmole sinks his well; 
How the robin feeds her young, 
How the oriole's nest is hung, 
Where the whitest lilies blow, 
Where the freshest berries grow. 
Where the ground-nut trails its vine. 
Where the wood-grape's clusters shine, 



Page One Hundred and Twenty-Eight 



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Of the black wasp's cunning way, — 
Mason of his walls of clay, — 
And the architectural plans 
Of gray-hornet artisans! — 
For, eschewing books and tasks, 
Nature answers all he asks, 
Hand in hand with her he walks, 
Face to face with her he talks, 
Part and parcel of her joy, — 
Blessings on the barefoot boy! 

Oh, for boyhood's time of June, 
Crowding years in one brief moon, 
When all things I heard or saw. 
Me, their master, waited for. 
I was rich in flowers and trees. 
Humming-birds and honeybees; 
For my sport the squirrel played. 
Plied the snouted mole his spade; 
For my task the blackberry cone 
Purpled over hedge and stone; 
Laughed the brook for my delight 
Through the day and through the night,- 
Whispering at the garden wall. 
Talked with me from fall to fall; 
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond. 
Mine the walnut slopes beyond, 
Mine, on bending orchard trees. 
Apples of Hesperides! 
Still, as my horizon grew, 
Larger grew my riches too; 
All the world I saw or knew 
Seemed a complex Chinese toy 
Fashioned for a barefoot boy. 

Oh, for festal dainties spread. 
Like my bowl of milk and bread, — 
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood. 
On the doorstone, gray and rude! 
O'er me, like a regal tent. 
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent. 
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold. 
Looped in many a wind-swung fold, 
While for music came the play 
Of the pied frog's orchestra, 
And, to light the noisy choir. 
Lit the fly his lamp of fire. 
I was monarch: pomp and joy 
Waited on thee, barefoot boy! 



Page One Hundred and Twenty-Nine 



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Cheerily, then, my little man, 
Live and laugh as boyhood can! 
Though the flinty slopes be hard, 
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, 
Every morn shall lead thee through 
Fresh baptisms of the dew; 
Every evening from thy feet 
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat; 
All too soon these feet must hide 
In the prison cells of pride. 
Lose the freedom of the sod, 
Like a colt's for work be shod, 
Made to tread the mills of toil. 
Up and down in ceaseless moil; 
Happy if their track be found 
Never on forbidden ground; 
Happy if they sink not in 
Quick and treacherous sands of sin, 
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy, 
Ere it passes, barefoot boy! 



Page One Hundred and Thirty 



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The Flag Goes By 

Henry Holcomb Bennett 

(Born December 5, 1863-^ ) 



Hats ofF! 
Along the street there comes 
A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums, 
A flash of color beneath the sky: 
Hats oflf"! 
The flag is passing by! 

Blue and crimson and white it shines, 
Over the steel-tipped, ordered lines. 
Hats off"! . 

The colors before us fly; 
But more than the flag is passing by. 

Sea-fights and land-fights, grim and great, 
Fought to make and to save the State: 
Weary marches and sinking ships; 
Cheers of victory on dying lips; 

Days of plenty and years of peace; 
March of a strong land's swift increase; 
Equal justice, right and law. 
Stately honor and reverend awe; 

Sign of a nation, great and strong 
To ward her people from foreign wrong: 
Pride and glory and honor, — all 
Live in the colors to stand or fall. 

Hats off"! 
Along the street there comes 
A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums; 
And loyal hearts are beating high: 
Hats oft! 
The flag is passing by! 



Page One Hundred and Thirty-One 



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<r<? 



The Things That Are 
More Excellent" 

William Watson 
f"Born August 2, 7858; J 



As we wax older on this earth, 

Till many a toy that charmed us seems 
Emptied of beauty, stripped of worth. 

And mean as dust and dead as dreams, — 
For gauds that perished, shows that passed, 

Some recompense the Fates have sent: 
Thrice lovelier shine the things that last, 

The things that are more excellent. 

Tired of the Senate's barren brawl, 

An hour with silence we prefer, 
Where statelier rise the woods than all 

Yon towers of talk at Westminster. 
Let this man prate and that man plot. 

On fame or place or title bent: 
The votes of veering crowds are not 

The things that are more excellent. 

Shall we perturb and vex our soul 

For "wrongs" which no true freedom mar. 
Which no man's upright walk control. 

And from no guiltless deed debar.? 
What odds though tonguesters heal, or leave 

Unhealed, the grievance they invent. r* 
To things, not phantoms, let us cleave — 

The things that are more excellent. 

Nought nobler is, than to be free: 

The stars of heaven are free because 
In amplitude of liberty 

Their joy is to obey the laws. 
From servitude to freedom's name 

Free thou thy mind in bondage pent; 
Depose the fetich, and proclaim 

The things that are more excellent. 



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And in appropriate dust be hurled 

That dull, punctilious god, whom they 
That call their tiny clan the world, 

Serve and obsequiously obey: 
Who con their ritual of Routine, 

With minds to one dead likeness blent, 
And never ev'n in dreams have seen 

The things that are more excellent. 

To dress, to call, to dine, to break 

No canon of the social code, 
The little laws that lacqueys make, 

The futile decalogue of Mode, — 
How many a soul for these things lives, 

With pious passion, grave intent! 
While Nature careless-handed gives 

The things that are more excellent. 

To hug the wealth ye cannot use. 

And lack the riches all may gain, — 
O blind and wanting wit to choose. 

Who house the chafF and burn the grain! 
And still doth life with starry towers 

Lure to the bright, divine ascent! — 
Be yours the things ye would: be ours 

The things that are more excellent. 

The grace of friendship — mind and heart 

Linked with their fellow heart and mind; 
The gains of science, gifts of art; 

The sense of oneness with our kind; 
The thirst to know and understand — 

A large and liberal discontent: 
These are the goods in life's rich hand, 

The things that are more excellent. 

In faultless rhythm the ocean rolls, 

A rapturous silence thrills the skies; 
And on this earth are lovely souls, 

That softly look with aidful eyes. 
Though dark, O God, Thy course and track, 

I think Thou must at least have meant 
That nought which lives should wholly lack 

The things that are more excellent. 



From "The Poems of William 
Watson." Copyrig-ht by John 
Lane Co., Publishers, New York 



Page One Hundred and Thirty-Three 



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Concord Hymn 

Sung- at the completion of the Battle Monument, April 19. Ui6 

Ralph Waldo Emerson 
^Born May 25, 1803; Died April 27, 1882 J 



By the rude bridge that arched the flood, 
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, 

Here once the embattled farmers stood, 
And fired the shot heard round the world. 

The foe long since in silence slept; 

Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; 
And Time the ruined bridge has swept 

Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. 

On this green bank, by this soft stream. 

We set today a votive stone; 
That memory may their deed redeem. 

When, like our sires, our sons are gone. 

Spirit, that made those spirits dare 
To die, and leave their children free. 

Bid Time and Nature gently spare 
The shaft we raise to them and thee. 



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Keep a-Goin' 

Frank L. Stanton 
(Born February 22^ 1857; J 



If you strike a thorn or rose, 

Keep a-goin'! 
If it hails or if it snows, 

Keep a-goin'! 
'Tain't no use to sit an' whine 
When the fish ain't on your line; 
Bait your hook an' keep a-tryin' — 

Keep a-goin'! 

When the weather kills your crop, 

Keep a-goin'! 
Though 'tis work to reach the top, 

Keep a-goin'! 
S'pose you're out o' ev'ry dime, 
Gittin' broke ain't any crime; 
Tell the world you're feelin' fine — 

Keep a-goin'! 

When it looks like all is up, 

Keep a-goin'! 
Drain the sweetness from the cup, 

Keep a-goin'! 
See the wild birds on the wing, 
Hear the bells that sweetly ring, 
When you feel like singin', sing — 

Keep a-goin'! 



Page One Hundred and Thirty-Five 



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Life Sculpture 

George Washington Doane 
(Born May 27, 1799; Died April 27, 1859) 



Courtesy, ITew England Magazine 



Chisel in hand stood a sculptor boy 
With his marble block before him, 

And his eyes lit up with a smile of joy, 
As an angel-dream passed o'er him. 

He carved the dream on that shapeless stone. 

With many a sharp incision; 
With heaven's own light the sculpture shone,- 

He'd caught that angel-vision. 

Children of life are we, as we stand 
With our lives uncarved before us. 

Waiting the hour when, at God's command. 
Our life-dream shall pass o'er us. 

If we carve it then on the yielding stone. 

With many a sharp incision. 
Its heavenly beauty shall be our own, — 

Our lives, that angel-vision. 




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The Choir Invisible 

George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans) 
("Born November 22, 1819; Died December 22, 1880 J 



Oh, may I join the choir invisible 

Of those immortal dead who live again 

In minds made better by their presence; live 

In pulses stirred to generosity, 

In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn 

For miserable aims that end with self, 

In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, 

And with their mild persistence urge men's search 

To vaster issues. So to live is heaven: 

To make undying music in the world, 

Breathing a beauteous order that controls 

With growing sway the growing life of man. 

So we inherit that sweet purity 

For which we struggled, failed, and agonized 

With widening retrospect that bred despair. 

Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued, 

A vicious parent shaming still its child, 

Poor anxious penitence, is quick dissolved; 

Its discords, quenched by meeting harmonies. 

Die in the large and charitable air. 

And all our rarer, better, truer self, 

That sobbed religiously in yearning song. 

That watched to ease the burden of the world, 

Laboriously tracing what must be, 

And what may yet be better, — saw within 

A worthier image for the sanctuary, 

And shaped it forth before the multitude, * 

Divinely human, raising worship so 

To higher reverence more mixed with love, — 

That better self shall live till human Time 

Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky 

Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb 

Unread forever. This is life to come, — 

Which martyred men have made more glorious 

For us who strive to follow. May I reach 



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That purest heaven, — be to other souls 
The cup of strength in some great agony, 
Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love, 
Beget the smiles that have no cruelty, 
Be the sweet presence of a good diffused. 
And in diffusion ever more intense! 
So shall I join the choir invisible 
Whose music is the gladness of the world. 




Marmion and Douglas 

From "Marmion" 

SirWalter Scott 
{Born August 1'6, 1771; Died September 21, 1832) 



The train from out the castle drew. 
But Marmion stopped to bid adieu: — 

"Though something I might plain," he said, 
''Of cold respect to stranger guest, 
Sent hither by your king's behest, 

While in Tantallon's towers I stayed, 
Part we in friendship from your land, 
And, noble Earl, receive my hand." — 

But Douglas round him drew his cloak. 

Folded his arms, and thus he spoke: — 

"My manors, halls, and bowers shall still 

Be open, at my sovereign's will. 

To each one whom he lists, howe'er 

Unmeet to be the owner's peer. 

My castles are my king's alone 

From turret to foundation-stone, — 

The hand of Douglas' is his own; 

And never shall in friendly grasp 

The hand of such as Marmion clasp." — 

Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire. 
And shook his very frame for ire. 
And — "This to me!" he said, — 



Page One Hundred and Thirty-Eight 



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"An't were not for thy hoary beard, . 
Such hand as Marmion's had not spared 

To cleave the Douglas' head! 
And first I tell thee, haughty Peer, 
He who does England's message here. 
Although the meanest in her state, 
May well, proud Angus, be thy mate: 
And, Douglas, more I tell thee here, 

Even in thy pitch of pride. 
Here in thy hold, thy vassals near, 
(Nay, never look upon your lord, 
And lay your hands upon your sword,) 

I tell thee, thou'rt defied! 
And if thou said'st I am not peer 
To any lord in Scotland here, 
Lowland or Highland, far or near, 

Lord Angus, thou hast lied!" — 
On the Earl's cheek the flush of rage 
O'ercame the ashen hue of age; 
Fierce he broke forth, — "And dar'st thou then 
To beard the lion in his den. 

The Douglas in his hall? 
And hop'st thou hence unscathed to go? 
No, by St. Bride of Bothwell, no! 
Up drawbridge, grooms, — ^what. Warder, ho! 

Let the portcullis fall." — 

Lord Marmion turned, — well was his need! — 
And dashed the rowels in his steed. 
Like arrow through the archway sprung; 
The ponderous gate behind him rung: 
To pass there was such scanty room. 
The bars, descending, razed his plume. 

The steed along the drawbridge flies, 
Just as it trembled on the rise; 
Not lighter does the swallow skim 
Along the smooth lake's level brim; 
And when Lord Marmion reached his band, 
He halts, and turns with clenched hand, 
And shout of loud defiance pours, 
And shook his gauntlet at the towers. 



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Time and Eternity 

From "In Memoriam" 

Alfred Tennyson 
("Born August 6, 1809; Died October 6, 1892 J 



If Sleep and Death be truly one, 
And every spirit's folded bloom 
Through all its intervital gloom 

In some long trance should slumber on; 

Unconscious of the sliding hour, 
Bare of the body, might it last, 
And silent traces of the past 

Be all the color of the flower: 

So then were nothing lost to man; 
So that still garden of the souls 
In many a figured leaf enrolls 

The total world since life began; 

And love will last as pure and whole 
As when he loved me here in Time 
And at the spiritual prime 

Rewaken with the dawning soul. 



Oh yet we trust that somehow good 
Will be the final goal of ill. 
To pangs of nature, sins of will. 

Defects of doubt, and taints of blood; 

That nothing walks with aimless feet; 
That not one life shall be destroyed, 
Or cast as rubbish to the void. 

When God hath made the pile complete; 

That not a worm is cloven in vain; 
That not a moth with vain desire 
Is shriveled in a fruitless fire. 

Or but subserves another's gain. 

Page One Hundred and Forty 



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Behold, we know not anything; 

I can but trust that good shall fall 
At last — far off — at last, to alL 

And every winter change to spring. 

So runs my dream: but what am I? 

An infant crying in the night; 

An infant crying for the light; 
And with no language but a cry. 



The wish that of the living whole 
No life may fail beyond the grave, 
Derives it not from what we have 

The likest God within the soul.^* 

Are God and Nature then at strife. 
That Nature lends such evil dreams .f* 
So careful of the type she seems, 

So careless of the single life; 

That I, considering everywhere 
Her secret meaning in her deeds. 
And finding that of fifty seeds 

She often brings but one to bear, 

I falter where I firmly trod. 

And falling with my weight of cares 
Upon the great world's altar-stairs 

That slope thro' darkness up to God 

I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, 
And gather dust and chafF, and call 
To what I feel is Lord of all, 

And faintly trust the larger hope. 



O living will that shalt endure 

When all that seems shall suffer shock. 
Rise in the spiritual rock, 

Flow through our deeds and make them pure, 

Thet we may lift from out of dust 
A voice as unto him that hears, 
A cry above the conquered years 

To one that with us works, and trust. 

Page One Hundred and Forty-One 



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With faith that comes of self-control, 
The truths that never can be proved 
Until we close with all we loved, 

And all we flow from, soul in soul. 




Crossing the Bar 

Alfred Tennyson 
f'Born August 6, 1809; Died October 6, 1S92J 



Sunset and evening star, 

And one clear call for me, 
And may there be no moaning of the bar. 

When I put out to sea. 

But such a tide as moving seems asleep, 

Too full for sound and foam, 
When that which drew from out the boundless deep 

Turns again home. 

Twilight and evening bell, 

And after that the dark! 
And may there be no sadness of farewell. 

When I embark; 

For tho' from out our bourne of time and place 

The flood may bear me far, 
I hope to see my Pilot face to face 

When I have crossed the bar. 



Page One Hundred and Forty-Two 



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Soliloquy from^^Hamlet'' 

William Shakespeare 
("Born April 23 (?J, 1564; Died April 23, 1616 J 



To be, or not to be; that is the question; 

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer 

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, 

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, /^ 

And by opposing end them. To die: to sleep: 

No more; and by a sleep to say we end 

The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks 

That flesh is heir to; 'tis a consummation 

Devoutly to be wished. To die; to sleep; 

To sleep: perchance to dream: aye, there's the rub; 

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, 

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, 

Must give us pause: there's the respect 

That makes calamity of so long life; 

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, 

The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, 

The.pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay, 

The insolence of office, and the spurns 

That patient merit of the unworthy takes. 

When he himself might his quietus make 

With a bare bodkin I Who would fardels bear. 

To grunt and sweat under a weary life. 

But that the dread of something after death — 

The undiscover'd country from whose bourn 

No traveler returns — puzzles the will 

And makes us rather bear those ills we have 

Than fly to others that we know not of? 

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all. 

And thus the native hue of resolution 

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, 

And enterprises of great pith and moment 

With this regard their currents turn awry, 

And lose the name of action. 



Page One Hundred and Forty-Three 



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She Was a Phantom 
of Delight 

William Wordsworth 
fBorn April 7, 1770; Died April 23, 1850 J 



She was a phantom of delight 

When first she gleamed upon my sight; 

A lovely apparition, sent ^ 

To be a moment's ornament; 

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; 

Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair; 

But all things else about her drawn 

From May- time and the cheerful dawn; 

A dancing shape, an image gay, 

To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 

I saw her upon nearer view, 

A spirit, yet a woman too! 

Her household motions light and free, 

And steps of virgin liberty; 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet; 

A creature not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food, 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles. 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 

And now I see with eye serene 
The very pulse of the machine; 
A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
A traveller between life and death: 
The reason firm, the temperate will. 
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; 
A perfect woman, nobly planned 
To warn, to comfort, and command; 
And yet a spirit still, and bright 
With something of angelic light. 



Page One Hundred and Forty-Four 



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The Spider and the Fly 

(A Fable) 
Mary Howitt 

(£or7t March 12, 1799-, Died January 30, 1888) 



"Will you walk into my parlor?" said the spider to the fly; 
" 'Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy. 
The way into my parlor is up a winding stair, 
And I have many pretty things to show when you are 

there." 
"O no, no," said the little fly, ''to ask me is in vain, 
For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down 

again." 

"Fm sure you must be weary, dear,with soaring up so high; 
Will you rest upon my little bed.?" said the spider to the 

fly- 

''There are pretty curtains drawn around, the sheets are 

fine and thin. 
And if you like to rest awhile, FU snugly tuck you in." 
"O no, no," said the little fly, "for Fve often heard it 

said, 
They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed." 

Said the cunning spider to the fly, "Dear friend, what 

shall I do. 
To prove the warm aff^ection Fve always felt for you.? 
I have within my pantry good store of all that's nice; 
Fm sure you're very welcome; will you please to take a 

slice.?" 
"O no, no," said the little fly, "kind sir, that cannot be; 
Fve heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to 

see. 

"Sweet creature!" said the spider, "you're witty and 

you're wise. 
How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are 

your eyes! 
I have a little looking-glass upon my parlor shelf. 

Page One Hundred and Forty-Five 



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If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold 

yourself." 
'*I thank you, gentle sir," she said, ''for what you're 

pleased to say, 
And bidding you good-morning now, I'll call another day." 

The spider turned him round about, and went into his 

den, 
For well he knew the silly fly would soon be back again: 
So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly, 
And set his table ready to dine upon the fly. 
Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing, 
''Come hither, hither, pretty fly, with the pearl and silver 

wing : 
Your robes are green and purple; there's a crest upon 

your head; 
Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull 

as lead." 

Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little fly. 

Hearing his wily flattering words, came slowly flitting by. 

With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer 

drew, 
Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple 

hue; 
Thinking only of her crested head — poor foolish thing! 

At last. 
Up jumped the cunning spider, and fiercely held her fast. 
He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den, 
Within his little parlor; but she ne'er came out again! 

And now, dear little children, who may this story read, 
To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne'er give 

heed; 
Unto an evil counselor close heart, and ear, and eye, 
And take a lesson from this tale of the Spider and the Fly. 



Page One Hundred and Forty-Six 



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Maud MuUer 

John Greenleaf Whittier 
/^Born December 17, 1807-, Died September 7, 1892) 



Maud MuUer, on a summer's day, 
Raked the meadow sweet with hay. 
Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth 
Of simple beauty and rustic health. 
Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee 
The mock-bird echoed from his tree. 

But when she glanced to the far-ofF town, 
White from its hill-slope looking down. 
The sweet song died, and a vague unrest 
And a nameless longing filled her breast; 
A wish, that she hardly dared to own. 
For something better than she had known. 

The Judge rode slowly down the lane. 

Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane: 

He drew his bridle in the shade 

Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, 

And asked a draught from the spring that flowed 

Through the meadow across the road. 

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, 
And filled for him her small tin cup. 
And blushed as she gave it, looking down 
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. 
"Thanks!" said the Judge, '*a sweeter draught 
From a fairer hand was never quaflFed." 

He spoke of the grass, and flowers, and trees. 
Of the singing birds and the humming bees; 
Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether 
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. 
And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown. 
And her graceful ankles bare and brown. 
And listened, while a pleased surprise 
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. 



Page One Hundred and Forty-Seven 



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At last, like one who for delay 

Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 

Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah, me! 

That I the Judge's bride might be! 

He would dress me up in silks so fine. 

And praise and toast me at his wine. 

'*My father should wear a broadcloth coat; 

My brother should sail a painted boat; 

I'd dress my mother so grand and gay. 

And the baby should have a new toy each day; 

And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor. 

And all should bless me who left our door." 

The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, 

And saw Maud Muller standing still. 

"A form more fair, a face more sweet. 

Ne'er has it been my lot to meet; 

And her modest answer and graceful air 

Show her wise and good as she is fair. 

''Would she were mine, and I to-day. 

Like her, a harvester of hay: 

No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, 

Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues; 

But low of cattle and song of birds. 

And health, and quiet, and loving words." 

But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold, 
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold; 
So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, 
And Maud was left in the field alone. 
But the lawyers smiled that afternoon. 
When he hummed in court an old-love tune; 
And the young girl mused beside the well. 
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. 

He wedded a wife of richest dower. 
Who lived for fashion, as he for power; 
Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, 
He watched a picture come and go; 
And sweet Maud Mullet's hazel eyes, 
Looked out in their innocent surprise. 

Oft when the wine in his glass was red. 
He longed for the wayside well instead; 
And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms. 
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms. 



Page One Hundred and Forty-Eight 



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And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain, 

**Ah, that I were free again! 

Free as when I rode that day. 

Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay." 

She wedded a man unlearned and poor, 
And many children played round her door; 
But care and sorrow, and wasting pain, 
Left their traces on heart and brain. 
And oft when the summer sun shone hot 
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot, 
And she heard the little spring brook fall 
Over the roadside, through the wall. 
In the shade' of the apple-tree again 
She saw a rider draw his rein, 
And, gazing down with timid grace. 
She felt his pleased eyes read her face. 

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls 
Stretched away into stately halls; 
The weary wheel to a spinet turned; 
The tallow candle an astral burned; 
And for him who sat by the chimney lug, 
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, 
A manly form at her side she saw, 
And joy was duty, and love was law. 
Then she took up her burden of life again, 
Saying only, "It might have been!" 

Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, 

For rich repiner and household drudge! 

God pity them both! and pity us all. 

Who vainly the dreams of youth recall; 

For of all sad words of tongue or pen 

The saddest are these: '*It might have been!" 

Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies 

Deeply buried from human eyes; 

And in the hereafter angels may 

Roll the stone from its grave away! 



Page One Hundred and Forty- Nine 



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The Night Before 
Christmas 

Clement Moore 
/"Born July 15, 1779; Died July 10, 1863 J 



Courtesy, Collier's Weekly 

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the 

house 
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; 
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, 
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; 
The children were nestled all snug in their beds, 
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; 
And Mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap. 
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap, 
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, 
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. 
Away to the window I flew like a flash, 
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. 
The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen snow, 
Gave a luster of mid-day to objects below; 
When, what to my wandering eyes should appear, 
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer, 
With a little old driver, so lively and quick, 
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. 
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came. 
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name: 
''Now, Dasher! now. Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen! 
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen! 
To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall! 
Now, dash away, dash away, dash away, all!" 
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, 
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, 
So, up to the house-top the coursers they flew. 
With the sleigh full of toys — and St. Nicholas, too. 
And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof 
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. 
As I drew in my head, and was turning around, 
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. 
He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot, 
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; 



Page One Hundred and Fifty 



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A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, 

And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack. 

His eyes how they twinkled! his dimples how merry! 

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry; 

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow. 

And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow. 

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, 

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath; 

He had a broad face and a little round belly 

That shook, when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly. 

He was chubby and plump — a right jolly old elf; 

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself. 

A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head. 

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. 

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work. 

And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, 

And laying his finger aside of his nose, 

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. 

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, 

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle; 

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, 

** Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!" 



Pag-e One Hundred and Fifty-One 



^nt ^tttiitrieit nttit ©tt^ ^ztrntfus '^xt^ms 




The Boys 



Oliver Wendell Holmes 
(Born August 29, 1809; Died October 7, 1894) 



Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys? 
If there' has, take him out, without making a noise. 
Hang the Almanac's cheat and the Catalogue's spite! 
Old Time Is a liar! We're twenty to-night! 



We're twenty! We're twenty! Who says we are more? 
He's tipsy — young jackanapes! — show him the door! 
**Gray temples at twenty?" — Yes! white If we please; 
Where the snow-flakes fall thickest there's nothing can 
freeze ! 



Was It snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake! 
Look close — you will see not a sign of a flake! 
We want some new garlands for those we have shed, 
And these are white roses In place of the red. 



We've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told, 
Of talking (Irf public) as If we were old; 
That boy we call '* Doctor," and this we call ''Judge"; 
It's a neat little fiction — of course it's all fudge. 



That fellow's the "Speaker" — the one on the right; 
"Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night? 
That's our "Member of Congress," we say when we chaff; 
There's the "Reverend" What's-hls-name.? — don't make 
me laugh. 

That boy with the grave mathematical look 
Made believe he had written a wonderful book, 
And the ROYAL SOCIETY thought It was true! 
So they chose him right In; a good joke It was, too! 



Page One Hundred and Fifty-Two 



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There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain. 
That could harness a team with a logical chain; 
When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire, 
We called him "The Justice," but now he's ''The Squire." 

And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith: 
Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith; 
But he shouted a song for the brave and the free — - 
Just read on his medal, "My country," "of thee!" 

You hear that boy laughing? You think he's all fun; 
But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done. 
The children laugh loud as they troop to his call, 
And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all! 

Yes, we're boys — always playing with tongue or with pen; 
And I sometimes have asked. Shall we ever be men.^" 
Shall we always be youthful and laughing and gay. 
Till the last dear companion drops smiling away.^* 

Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray! 
The stars of its winter, the dews of its May! 
And when we have done with our life-lasting toys. 
Dear Father, take care of thy children, THE BOYS! 




Page One Hundred and Fifty-Three 



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My Kate 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning 
^Born March 6, 1806; Died June 30, 1861 J 



She was not as pretty as women I know, 

And yet all your best made of sunshine and snow 

Drop to shade, melt to nought in the long-trodden ways, 

While she's still remembered on warm and cold days — 

My Kate. 
Her air had a meaning, her movements a grace; 
You turned from the fairest to gaze on her face; 
And when you had once seen her forehead and mouth. 
You s^aw as distinctly her soul and her truth — 

My Kate. 
Such a blue inner light from her eyelids outbroke. 
You looked at her silence and fancied she spoke; 
When she did, so peculiar yet soft was the tone. 
Though the loudest spoke also, you heard her alone — 

My Kate. 
I doubt if she said to you much that could act 
As a thought or suggestion; she did not attract 
In the sense of the brilliant or wise; I infer 
'T was her thinking of others made you think of her — 

My Kate. 
She never found fault with you, never implied 
Your wrong by her right; and yet men at her side 
Grew nobler, girls purer, as through the whole town 
The children were gladder that pulled at her gown — 

My Kate. 
None knelt at her feet confessed lovers in thrall; 
They knelt more to God than they used — that was all; 
If ycu praised her as charming, some asked what you 

meant, 
But the charm of her presence was felt when she went — 

My Kate. 
The weak and the gentle, the ribald and rude, 
She took as she found them, and did them all good; 
It always was so with her — see what you have! 
She has made the grass greener even here with her grave — 

My Kate. 

Page One Hundred and Fifty-Four 



®Ke ^ttttiiteii nnii ©tte JlTatnctts ^u«ma 




The Battle of Naseby 

Thomas Babington Macaulay 
(Bom October 25, 1800; Died December 28, 1859) 



Oh! wherefore come ye forth in triumph from the north, 

With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all 

red? 

And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout? 

And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which ye 

tread ? 

Oh! evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit, 

And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod; 

For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the 
strong, 
Who sate in the high places and slew the saints of God. 



It was about the noon of a glorious day of June, 

That we saw their banners dance and their cuirasses 
shine. 
And the Man of Blood was there, with his long essenced 
hair, 
And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the 
Rhine. 

Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword. 
The General rode along us to form us to the fight, 

When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into a 
shout. 
Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's right. 

And hark! like the roar of billows on the shore. 
The cry of battles rises along their charging line! 

For God! for the Cause! for the Church! for the Laws! 
For Charles, King of England, and Rupert of the 
Rhine! 



Page One Hundred and Fifty-Five 



^ttt ^nnitvth unit ©tie ^etmuits ^iiiems 



The furious German comes, with his clarions and his 
drums, 
His bravoes of Alsatia and pages of Whitehall; 
They are bursting on our flanks! Grasp your pikes! 
Close your ranks! 
For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall. 



They are here — they rush on — we are broken — we are 

gone — 

Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast. 

O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the right! 

Stand back to back, in God's name! and fight it to the 

last! 



Stout Skippon hath a wound — the centre hath given 
ground, 
Hark! hark! what means the trampling of horsemen 
on our rear.f* 
Whose banner do I see, boys-f" 'Tis he! thank God! 
'tis he, boys! 
Bear up another minute! Brave Oliver. is here! 

Their heads are stooping low, their points all in a row; 

Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the 
dykes. 
Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the accurst, 

And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes. 



Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide 
Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar; 

And he — he turns! he flies! shame on those cruel eyes 
That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war! 



Ho, comrades! scour the plain; and ere ye strip the slain, 
First give another stab to make your search secure; 

Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces 
and lockets. 
The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor. 

Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts 
were gay and bold, 
When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans today; 
And tomorrow shall the fox from her chambers in the 
rocks 
Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey. 

Page One Hundred and Fifty -Six 



)nt ^nnitrth unit ®«:e ^ztrnttn^ l^xt^m^ 



Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven, and 
hell, and fate? 
And the fingers that once were so busy with your 
blades? 
Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches and your 
oaths? 
Your stage plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and 
your spades? 

Down! down! forever down, with the mitre and the 
crown. 
With the Belial of the Court, and the Mammon of the 
Pope! 
There is woe in Oxford halls, there is wail in Durham's 
stalls; 
The Jesuit smites his bosom, the bishop rends his cope. 

And She of the seven hills shall mourn her children's ills, 
And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England's 
sword; 
And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder when they 
hear 
What the hand of God hath wrought i'or the Houses and 
the Word ! 



Page One Hundred and Fifty-Seven 



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To a Waterfowl 

William Cullen Bryant 
^Boffi November 3, 1794-, Died June 12, 1878 J 



Whither, 'midst falling dew, 

While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, 
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue 

Thy solitary way? 

Vainly the fowler's eye 

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong. 
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky. 

Thy figure floats along. 

Seek'st thou the plashy brink 

Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 

Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 
On the chafed ocean's side? 

There is a Power whose care 

Teaches thy way along that pathless coast — 
The desert and illimitable air — 

Lone wandering, but not lost. 

All day thy wings have fanned, 

At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, 
Yet stoop not weary, to the welcome land. 

Though the dark night is near. 

And soon that toil shall end; 

Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, 
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, 

Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. 

Thou'rt gone! the abyss of heaven 

Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart 
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given. 

And shall not soon depart. 



Page One Hundred and Fifty-Eight 



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He who, from zone to zone, 

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, 
In the long way that I must tread alone 

Will lead my steps aright. 

By special permission of 
D. Appleton A Company. 



I Shall not Pass this Way Again 

(A Symphony) 

Eva Rose York 

fBorn December 22, 1858; J 

I shall not pass this way again — 

Although it bordered be with flowers, 
Although I rest in fragrant bowers, 

And hear the singing 

Of song-birds winging 
To highest heaven their gladsome flight; 
Though moons are full and stars are bright, 
And winds and waves are softly sighing. 
While leafy trees make low replying; 
Though voices clear in joyous strain 
Repeat a jubilant refrain; 
Though .rising suns their radiance throw 
On summer's green and winter's snow, 
In such rare splendor that my heart 
Would ache from scenes like these to part; 

Though beauties heighten, 

And life-lights brighten. 
And joys proceed from every pain, — 
I shall not pass this way again. 

Then let me pluck the flowers that blow, 
And let me listen as I go 

To music rare 

That fills the air; 

And let hereafter 

Songs and laughter 
Fill every pause along the way; 
And to my spirit let me say: 

Page One Hundred and Fifty-Nine 



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"O soul, be happy; soon 'tis trod, 
The path made thus for thee by God. 
Be happy, thou, and bless His name 
By whom such marvellous beauty came." 
And let no chance by me be lost 
To kindness show at any cost. 
I shall not pass this way again; 
Then let me now relieve some pain. 
Remove some barrier from the road, 
Or brighten some one's heavy load; 
A helping hand to this one lend. 
Then turn some other to befriend. 

O God, forgive 

That now I live 
As if I might, sometime, return 
To bless the weary ones that yearn 
For help and comfort every day,— 
For there be such along the way. 

God, forgive that I have seen 
The beauty only, have not been 
Awake to sorrow such as this; 
That I have drunk the cup of bliss 
Remembering not that those there be 
Who drink the dregs of misery. 

1 love the beauty of the scene. 
Would roam again o'er fields so green; 
But since I may not, let me spend 
My strength for others to the end, — 
For those who tread on rock and stone, 
And bear their burdens all alone, 
Who loiter not in leafy bowers. 

Nor hear the birds nor pluck the flowers, 
A larger kindness give to me, 
A deeper love and sympathy; 

Then, Oh, one day 

May someone say — 
Remembering a lessened pain — 
"Would she could pass this way again." 



Page One Hundred and Sixty 



)jt^ ^nn^T^h 9^nit (^nt ^nmttns^ l^ix:ems 



The Heart of the Tree 

Henry Cutler Bunner 
fBorn August 3, 1855; Died May 11, 1896 J 



What does he plant who plants a tree? 
He plants a friend of sun and sky; 

He plants the flag of breezes free; 
The shaft of beauty, towering high; 
He plants a home to heaven anigh 

For song and mother-croon of bird 

In hushed and happy twilight heard — 
The treble of heaven's harmony — 
These things he plants who plants a tree. 

What does he plant who plants a tree? 
He plants cool shade and tender rain, 

And seed and bud of days to be, 
And years that fade and flush again; 
He plants the glory of the plain; 

He plants the forest's heritage; 

The harvest of a coming age; 
The joy that unborn eyes shall see — 
These things he plants who plants a tree. 

What does he plant who plants a tree? 
He plants, in sap and leaf and wood. 

In love of home and loyalty 
And far-cast thought of civic good — 
His blessings on the neighborhood 

Who in the hollow of His hand 

Holds all the growth of all our land — 
A nation's growth from sea to sea 
Stirs in his heart who plants a tree. 



By special arrangement with 
Charles A. Scribner's Sons, publishers 



Page One Hundred and Sixty-One 



®nt ^ttjtitr^it nnh ©tt^ ^nmtxnsi ^u^nts 




Ode on a Grecian Urn 

John Keats 
(Born October 31, 1795; Died February 23, 1S21) 



Thou still unravished bride of quietness, 

Thou foster child of Silence and slow Time, 
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: 
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape 

Of deities or mortals, or of both. 
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? 

What men or gods are these ? What maidens loath ? 
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? 

What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? 



Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 

Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; 
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared. 

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone; 
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 

Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; 
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss. 
Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve; 

She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, 
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! 



Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed 

Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; 
And, happy melodist, unwearied. 

For ever piping songs for ever new; 
More happy love! more happy, happy love! 

For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd. 
For ever panting, and for ever young; 
All breathing human passion far above. 

That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, 
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 



Page One Hundred and Sixty-Two 



©tte ^nnbmh Kxtb^ ©n^ ^amntts ^jt:ems 



Who are these coming to the sacrifice? 

To what green altar, O mysterious priest, 
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, 

And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? 
What little town by river or seashore, 

Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, 
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? 
And, little town, thy streets for evermore 

Will silent be; and not a soul to tell 
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede 

Of marble men and maidens overwrought. 
With forest branches and the trodden weed; 

Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought 
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! 

When old age shall this generation waste, 
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe 
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," — that is all 
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 




Page One Hundred and Sixty-Three 



®tt^ JEwttitr^it ntxit ®tt^ ^Zimxins l^txtms 




Apostrophe to the Ocean 

From "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage" 

George Gordon Byron 

(Sixth Lord) 

(Born January 22, 1788; Died April 19, 1824) 



There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 

There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
There is society where none intrudes. 

By the deep sea, and music in its roar. 

I love not man the less, but Nature more. 
From these our interviews, in which I steal 

From all I may be, or have been before. 
To mingle with the universe, and feel 
What I can ne'er express, yet can not all conceal. 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll! 

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; 
Man marks the earth with ruin, his control 

Stops with the shore; upon the waterj^ plain 

The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own. 

When for a moment, like a drop of rain. 
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan. 
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. 

His steps are not upon thy paths, thy fields 
Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise 

And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields 
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, 
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies. 

And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray 
And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies 

His petty hope in some near port or bay. 

And dashst him again to earth: — there let him lay. 

The armaments which thunder-strike the walls 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake. 

And monarchs tremble in their capitals; 
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 

Page One Hundred and Sixty-Four 



®tte ^nnitxtit ntxb ©it^ ^nrnttxts l^tti^ms 



Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war; — 

These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, 
They melt into the yest of waves, which mar 
Alike the Armada's pride or spoils of Trafalgar. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee; 

Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage — what are they? 
Thy waters wasted them while they were free. 

And many a tyrant since; their shores obey 

The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay 
Has dried up realms to deserts: not so thou. 

Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play; 
Time writes no wrinkle on thy azure brow; 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 

Glasses itself in tempests; in all time. 
Calm or convulsed; in breeze, or gale, or storm, 

Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime. 

Dark-heaving; boundless, endless, and sublime; — 
The image of Eternity, the throne 

Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made; each zone 
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 

And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 

Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy 
I wanton'd with thy breakers — they to me 
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea 

Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear, 
For I was as it were a child of thee. 

And trusted to thy billows far and near. 

And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. 



Page One Hundred and Sixty-Five 



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^ Matwat' "V-Ct^eUHyy*''^''^^^ Qy^*^ ^uLoUj-^ "^/^^^^ -^^^ -i'hJL' C^fi^^rt-^y^oi^ 
^hrsJl.y7^y>y&-ry oT't^tCjt/ JC^tA€t^ Oyy*-^ J^-v^ptr^ wyi^^ "t^fiL U'V^O'M^^^ty 'A^oOl 



On the walls of Brasenose College, Oxford University, England, this letter of the 
"rail-splitter" President hangs as a model of purest English, rarely, if ever, surpassed. 



^nt '^nnbxt^h nnh ®tt^ ^nmans l^tttms 




Gettysburg Address 

Speech at the Dedication of the National Cemetery at Gettysburg 
November 19, 1863 

Abraham Lincoln 



Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought 
forth upon this continent a new nation, conceived in 
liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men 
are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great 
civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so 
conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are 
met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come 
to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting-place 
for those who here gave their lives that that nation 
might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we 
should do this. But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate, 
we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. 
The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, 
have consecrated it far above our poor power to add or 
detract. The world will little note, nor long remember, 
what we say here; but it can never forget what they did 
here. It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated 
here to the unfinished work which they who fought here 
have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to 
be here dedicated to the great task remaining before 
us, that from these honored dead we take increased 
devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full 
measure of devotion; that we here highly resolve that 
these dead shall not have died in vain; that this nation, 
under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that 
government of the people, by the people, and for the 
people, shall not perish from the earth. 



Page One Hundred and Sixty-Seven 



)tt^ ^nnitttit nnit ®n^ ^vcmxtns ^jt^ms 



The Ten Commandments 



I 

I am the Lord thy God, which have brought thee out 
of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage. 

Thou shalt have no other gods before me. 

II 

Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or 
any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or 
that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under 
the earth: 

Thou shalt not bow down thyself to them, nor serve 
them: for I the Lord thy God am a jealous God, visiting 
the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the 
third and fourth generation of them that hate me; 

And shewing mercy unto thousands of them that love 
me, and keep my commandments. 

Ill 

Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in 
vain; for the Lord will not hold him guiltless that taketh 
his name in vain. 

IV 

Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy: 
Six days shalt thou labor and do all thy work: 

But the seventh day is the Sabbath of the Lord thy 
God; in it thou shalt not do any work, thou, nor thy son, 
nor thy daughter, thy man-servant, nor thy maid-servant, 
nor thy cattle, nor the stranger that is within thy gates: 

For in six days the Lord made heaven and earth, the 
sea, and all that in them is, and rested the seventh day: 
wherefore the Lord blessed the Sabbath day, and hal- 
lowed it. 

V 

Honour thy father and thy mother: that thy days may 
be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth 
thee. 

VI 

Thou shalt not kill. 

VII 

Thou shalt not commit adultery. 

Page One Hundred and Sixty-Eight 



® jt^ ^nnitx^h uttit ®tt^ ^nmttna ^xx^ms 



I 



Thou shalt not steal. 



VIII 
IX 



Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor. 

X 

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's house, thou shalt 
not covet thy neighbor's wife, nor his man-servant, nor 
his maid-servant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor any thing 
that is thy neighbor's. 



Magna Charta 




On June 15, 1215, King 
John met the barons near 
Runnymeade on the 
Thames, and granted 
them the charter which 
they laid before him. 

This charter contains 
sixty-three articles, some 
of which were merely 
temporary; the principles 
upon which the whole 
English judicial system is 
based are these: 

"No freeman shall be 
taken or imprisoned, or 
disseised*, or outlawed, 
or banished . . unless 
by the lawful judgment of 
his peers, or by the law 
of the land. ' ' 

* 'We will sell to no man, 
we will not deny to any 
man, either justice or 
right." 

Among the most im- 
portant articles were the 
two which limited the 
power of the king in mat- 
ters of taxation: 

"No scutage or aid 
shall be imposed in our 
kingdom unless by the 
general council of our 
kingdom; " 
and 

"For the holding of the general council of the kingdom . . . 
we shall cause to be summoned the archbishops, bishops, abbots, 
earls, and the greater barons of the realm, singly^ by our letters. 
And furthermore we shall cause to be summoned generally by our 
sheriffs and bailiffs, all others who hold of us in chief." 

* Dispossessed of land. 



Engraved for Sydney's "History of England" 



Page One Hundred and Sixty-Nine 



)nt ^nnitmit unit ®tt^ ^nmxxns l^tttms 




The War Inevitable, 
March 1775 

Patrick Henry 

They tell us, Sir, that we are 
weak, — unable to cope with so for- 
midable an adversary. But when 
shall we be stronger? Will it be the 
next week, or the next year? Will 
it be when we are totally disarmed, 
and when a British guard shall be stationed in every 
house ? Shall we gather strength by irresolution and 
inaction? Shall we acquire the means of effectual re- 
sistance by lying supinely on our backs, and hugging the 
delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have 
bound us hand and foot? Sir, we are not weak, if we 
make a proper use of those means which the God of 
nature hath placed in our power. 

Three millions of People, armed in the holy cause of 
liberty, and in such a cotintry as that which we possess, 
are invincible by any force which our enemy can send 
against us. Beside, Sir, we shall not fight our battles 
alone. There is a just God who presides over the des- 
tinies of Nations, and who will raise up friends to fight 
our battles for us. The battle, Sir, is not to the strong 
alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. Besides, 
Sir, we have no election. If we were base enough to desire 
it, it is now too late to retire from the contest. There 
is no retreat but in submission and slavery! Our chains 
are forged! Their clanking may be heard on the plains 
of Boston! The war is inevitable; and let it come! I 
repeat, Sir, let it come! 

It is in vain, Sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen 
may cry. Peace, Peace! — but there is no peace. The 
war is actually begun! The next gale that sweeps from 
the North will bring to our ears the clash of resounding 
arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why 
stand we here idle? What is it that Gentlemen wish? 
What would they have? Is Hfe so dear, or peace so sweet, 
as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? 
Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others 
may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me 
death! 



Page One Hundred and Seventy 



#ji^ ^ttttitr^it nttit ®jt^ ^nman^ l^tttms 



The Declaration of Independence 

In Congress, July 4th, 1776 

The Unanimous Declaration of the Thirteen United States of America 

When, in the course of human events, it becomes 
necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands 
which have connected them with another, and to assume, 
among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal 
station to which the laws" of nature and of nature's God 
entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of man- 
kind requires that they should declare the causes which 
impel them to the separation. 

We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men 
are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator 
with certain inalienable rights; that among these are life, 
liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. That to secure 
these rights, governments are instituted among men, 
deriving their just powers from the consent of the gov- 
erned; that whenever any form of government becomes 
destructive of these ends, it is the right of the people to 
alter or to abolish it, and to institute a new government, 
laying its foundation on such principles, and organizing 
its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely 
to effect their safety and happiness. Prudence, indeed, 
will dictate, that governments long established should 
not be changed for light and transient causes; and 
accordingly all experience hath shown, that mankind 
are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufFerable, 
than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to 
which they are accustomed. But when a long train of 
abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same 
object, evinces a design to reduce them under absolute 
despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off 
such government, and to provide new guards for their 
future security. Such has been the patient sufferance 
of these colonies; and such is now the necessity which 
constrains them to alter their former systems of govern- 
ment. The history of the present king of Great Britain 
is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all 
having in direct object the establishment of an absolute 
tyranny over these states. To prove this, let facts be 
submitted to a candid world. 

He has refused his assent to laws the most wholesome 
and necessary for the public good. 

Page One Hundred and Seventy-One 



te ^nixittieit unit ^nt '^Ttmxtns ^u^ms 



He has forbidden his governors to pass laws of im- 
mediate and pressing importance, unless suspended in 
their operation till his assent should be obtained; and 
when so suspended, he has utterly neglected to attend 
to them. 

He has refused to pass other laws for the accommoda- 
tion of large districts of people, unless those people would 
relinquish the right of representation in the legislature — 
a right inestimable to them, and formidable to tyrants 
only. 

He has called together legislative bodies at places 
unusual, uncomfortable, and distant from the depository 
of their public records, for the sole purpose of fatiguing 
them into compliance with his measures. 

He has dissolved representative houses repeatedly, for 
opposing, with manly firmness, his invasions on the 
rights of the people. 

He has refused, for a long time after such dissolutions, 
to cause others to be elected; whereby the legislative 
powers, incapable of annihilation, have returned to the 
people at large, for their exercise, the state remaining in 
the mean time exposed to all the dangers of invasion 
from without, and convulsions within. 

He has endeavored to prevent the population of these 
states; for that purpose obstructing the laws for naturali- 
zation of foreigners; refusing to pass others to encourage 
their migration hither, and raising the conditions of new 
appropriations of lands. 

He has obstructed the administration of justice, by 
refusing his assent to laws for establishing judiciary 
powers. 

He has made judges dependent on his will alone, for 
the tenure of their offices, and the amount and payment 
of their salaries. 

He has erected a multitude of new offices, and sent 
hither swarms of officers, to harass our people, and eat 
out their substance. 

He has kept among us, in times of peace, standing 
armies, without the consent of our legislature. 

He has affected to render the military independent of, 
and superior to, the civil power. 

He has combined with others to subject us to a juris- 
diction foreign to our constitution, and unacknowledged 



Page One Hundred and Seventy-Two 



* ® tt^ ^nnbvtit nnit ®nt ^zcmxtns l^xt^ms 



by our laws; giving his assent to their acts of pretended 
legislation: 

For quartering large bodies of armed troops among us: 

For protecting them, by a mock trial, from punishment 
for any murders which they should commit on the. in- 
habitants of these states: 

For cutting off our trade with all parts of the world: 

For imposing taxes on us without our consent: 

For depriving us, in many cases, of the benefits of trial 
by jury: 

For transporting us beyond seas to be tried for pre- 
tended offences : 

For abolishing the free system of English laws in a 
neighboring province, establishing therein an arbitrary 
government, and enlarging its boundaries, so as to render 
it at once an example and fit instrument for introducing 
the same absolute rule into these colonies: 

For taking away our charters, abolishing our most 
valuable laws, and altering, fundamentally, the forms of 
our governments: 

For suspending our own legislatures, and declaring 
themselves invested with power to legislate for us in all 
cases whatsoever. 

He has abdicated government here, by declaring us 
out of his protection and waging war against us. 

He has plundered our seas, ravaged our coasts, burnt 
our towns and destroyed the lives of our people. 

He is at this time transporting large armies of foreign 
mercenaries to complete the works of death, desolation, 
and tyranny, already begun with circumstances of 
cruelty and perfidy scarcely paralleled in the most bar- 
barous ages, and totally unworthy the head of a civilized 
nation. 

He has constrained our fellow-citizens, taken captive 
on the high seas, to bear arms against their country, to 
become the executioners of their friends and brethren, or 
to fall themselves by their hands. 

He has excited domestic insurrections among us, and 
has endeavored to bring on the inhabitants of our fron- 



Page One Hundred and S e v e n t y - T h r e e 



©tte ^nnittT:eh rcnh ^nt: ^Ktnttns ^xt^ms' 



tiers the merciless Indian savages, whose known rule of 
warfare is an undistinguished destruction of all ages, 
sexes, and conditions. 

In every stage of these oppressions we have petitioned 
for redress in the most humble terms; our repeated 
petitions have been answered only by repeated injury. 
A prince whose character is thus marked by every act 
which may define a tyrant is unfit to be the ruler of a 
free people. 

Nor have we been wanting in attentions to our British 
brethren. We have warned them, from time to time, of 
attempts by their legislature to extend an unwarrantable 
jurisdiction over us. We have reminded them of the 
circumstances of our emigration and settlement here. 
We have appealed to their native justice and magnanim- 
ity, and we have conjured them by the ties of our com- 
mon kindred to disavow these usurpations, which would 
inevitably interrupt our connections and correspondence. 
They, too, have been deaf to the voice of justice and 
consanguinity. We must, therefore, acquiesce ip the 
necessity which denounces our separation, and hold them, 
as we hold the rest of mankind, enemies in war, in peace 
friends. 

We, therefore, the representatives of the United States 
of America, in General Congress assembled, appealing 
to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of 
our intentions, do, in the name and by the authority of 
the good people of these colonies, solemnly publish and 
declare that these United Colonies are, and of right 
ought to be, free and independent States; that they are 
absolved from all allegiance to the British crown, and 
that all political connection between them and the State 
of Great Britain is, and ought to be, totally dissolved; 
and that, as free and independent States, they have full 
power to levy war, conclude peace, contract alliances, 
establish commerce, and to do all other acts and things 
which independent States may of right do. And for the 
support of this declaration, with a firm reliance on the 
protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to 
each other our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor. 

Signed by order and in behalf of the Congress. 

JOHN HANCOCK, President. 

Attested, CHARLES THOMPSON, Secretary. 



Page One Hundred and Seventy-Four 



®tt^ ^unitmit nnh ^nt ^Tcmttns l^xt:ems 



NEW HAMPSHIRE 

Josiah Bartlett, 
William Whipple, 
Matthew Thornton. 

RHODE ISLAND. 

Stephen Hopkins, 
William Ellery. 

NEW YORK. 

William Floyd, 
Phillip Livingston, 
Francis Lewis, 
Lewis Morris. 

PENNSYLVANIA. 

Robert Morris, 
Benjamin Rush, 
Benjamin Franklin, 
John Morton, 
George Clymer, 
James Smith, 
George Taylor, 
James Wilson, 
George Ross. 

VIRGINIA. 

George Wythe, 
Richard Henry Lee, 
Thomas Jefferson, 
Benjamin Harrison, 
Thomas Nelson, Jr., 
Francis Lightfoot Lee, 
Carter Braxton. 

SOUTH CAROLINA. 

Edward Rutledge, 
Thomas Heyward, Jr., 
Thomas Lynch, Jr., 
Arthur Middleton. 



MASSACHUSETTS BAY 

Samuel Adams, 
John Adams, 
Robert Treat Paine, 
Eldridge Gerry. 

CONNECTICUT. 

Roger Sherman, 
Samuel Huntington, 
William Williams, 
Oliver Wolcott. 



''W^ 



NEW JERSEY. 

Richard Stockton, 
John Witherspoon, 
Francis Hopkinson, 
John Hart, 
Abraham Clark. 

DELAWARE. 

Caesar Rodney, 
George Read, 
Thomas M'kean. 

MARYLAND. 

Samuel Chase, 

William Paca, 

Thomas Stone, 

Charles Carroll of Carrollton. 

NORTH CAROLINA. 

William Hooper, 
Joseph Hewes, 
John Penn. 

GEORGIA. 

Button Gwinnett, 
Lyman Hall, 
George Walton. 



Page One Hundred and Seventy-Five 



®tt^ ^utijlxt^h unit ®it^ ^nmitns l^tt^ms 




L'Envoi 



RuDYARD Kipling 
("Born December 30, 1865; J 



When earth's last picture is painted, and the tubes are 

twisted and dried, 
When the oldest colors have faded, and the youngest 

critic has died, 
We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it — lie down for 

an aeon or two. 
Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall set us to work 

anew! 

And those that were good will be happy: they shall sit 

in a golden chair; 
They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of 

comets' hair; 
They shall find real saints to draw from — Magdalene, 

Peter, and Paul; 
They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired 

at all! 

And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master 

shall blame; 
And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work 

for fame; 
But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his 

separate star. 
Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things 

as They Are! 



Page One Hundred and Seventy-Six 



©tte ^ixinhvi^h nnb^ ©«^ ^nmttn^ ^n^ms 



Index 



PAGE 



Abou Ben Adhem — James Henry Leigh Hunt 82 

America for Me — Henry Van Dyke 50 

Apostrophe to the Ocean — George Gordon Byron 164 

Barefoot Boy, The — John Greenleaf Whittier 128 

Battle of Naseby, The — Thomas Babington Macaulay 155 

Be Strong — Maltbie Davenport Babcock 2)7 

Bells, The— £rf^ar Allan Poe 83 

Blessed Damozel, The — Dante Gabriel Rossetti 46 

Blue and the Gray, The — Francis Miles Finch 39 

Boys, The — Oliver Wendell Holmes 152 

Builders, The — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1 

Building of the Ship, The — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. . . 70 

Chambered Nautilus, The — Oliver Wendell Holmes 13 

Charge of the Light Brigade — Alfred Tennyson 7 

Childe Harold's Farewell to England — George Gordon Byron AM 

Children's Hour, The — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 94 

Choir Invisible, The — George Eliot 137 

Christmas Everywhere — Phillips Brooks 14 

Cloud, The — Percy Bysshe Shelley 42 

Columbus — Cincinnatus Hiner Miller (Joaquin Miller) 38 

Concord Hymn — Ralph Waldo Emerson 134 

Conscience and Remorse — Paul Lawrence Dunbar 10 

Crossing the Bar — Alfred Tennyson 142 

Cuddle Doon — Alexander Anderson 90 

Daffodils, The — William Wordsworth 16 

Day Is Done, The — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 109 

Deacon's Masterpiece, The — Oliver Wendell Holmes 67 

Duel, The — Eugene Field 56 

Each and All — Ralph Waldo Emerson 5 

Each in His Own Tongue — William Herbert Carruth.- 64 

Elegy Written in a Country Church Yard — Thomas Gray 86 

Eternal Goodness, The — John Greenleaf Whittier 105 

Flag Goes By, The — Henry Holcomb Bennett 131 

For A' That and A' Thsit— Robert Burns 121 

God Save the Flag — Oliver Wendell Holmes 114 

Gradatim — Josiah Gilbert Holland 120 

Happy Warrior, The — William Wordsworth 27 

Heart of the Tree, The — Henry Ciiyler Bunner 161 

Hiawatha's Childhood — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 25 

Horatius — Thomas Babington Macaulay 97 

House by the Side of the Road, The — Samuel Walter Foss 81 



Page One Hundred and Seventy-Seven 



( 



®tie JEttttitr^it unit ®nt ^nmxtns ^xx^ms 



PAGE 

How Did You Die — Edward Vance Cooke 44 

li^r—Rudyard Kipling 108 

Invictus — William Ernest Henley 95 

I Shall Not Pass This Way Again— £^'a Rose York 159 ' 

Jest 'Fore Christmas — Eugene Field 122 

June — (The Vision of Sir Launfal) — James Russell Lowell.. 17 

Keep A-Goin' — Frank L. Stanton 135 

Knee-Deep in June — James Whitcomh Riley 7Z 

L'Envoi — Rudyard Kipling 176 

Letter to a Young Friend — Robert Burns 65 ' 

Life Sculpture — George Washington Doane 136 

Little Boy Blue — Eugene Field'. 15 

Love of Country (The Lay of the Last Minstrel) — Sir Walter 

Scott 1 10 

Marmion and Douglas (Marmion) — Sir Walter Scott 138 

Maud MuUer — John Greenleaf Whittier 147 

Mercy (The Merchant of Venice) — William Shakespeare ... . 53 

Minuet, The — Mary Mapes Dodge 112 

Moonhght (The Merchant of Venice) — William Shakespeare 11 

My Kate — Elizabeth Barrett Browning 154 

Night Before Christmas, The — Clement Moore 150 

Night Has a Thousand Eyes, The — Francis William Bourdil- 

lon 8 

Nobility— ^/iV^ Cary Ill i^ 

Not in Vain — Emily Dickinson 30 

O Captain ! My Captain ! — Walt Whitman 12 

Ode on a Grecian Urn — John Keats 162 

Ode on Intimations of Immortality — William Wordsworth. . 59 

Ode to the West Wind — Percy Bysshe Shelley 19 

Opening of the Piano, The — Oliver Wendell Holmes 54 

Opportunity — Edward Rowland Sill 2 

Opportunity — John James Ingalls 75 

Out to Old Aunt Mary's — James Whitcomb Riley 3 

Owl and the Pussy Cat, The — Edward Lear 96 

Paul Revere's Ride — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 77 

Perseverance — Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe 107 

Plant a Tree — Lucy Larcom 9 

Polonius' Advice to Laertes (Hamlet) — William Shakespeare 11 

Present Crisis, The — James Russell Lowell 2>2> 

Psalm of Life, A — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 124 

Raven, The — Edgar Allan Foe 115 

Recessional — Rudyard Kipling 41 

Rhodora, The — Ralph Waldo Emerson 6 

She Was a Phantom of Delight — William Wordsworth 144 

She Walks in Beauty — George Gordon Byron 104 

Sheridan's Ride — Thomas Buchanan Read 31 



Page One Hundred and Seventy-Eight 




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